


how to: ted bundy

by Hazzafagga



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: :(, ASPD, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bisexuality, Bottom Louis, Cheating, Child Abuse, Dark Harry, Dom Harry, Drugs, F/M, Gen, Kidnapping, Language, Larry Stylinson Is Real, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Narcissism, Necrophilia, Original Character(s), Pedophilia, Psycho Harry, Rape, Sad, Self-Harm, Serial Killer, Sex, Sexual Assault, Smut, Sub Louis, Top Harry, Underage - Freeform, Violence, larry - Freeform, lying, psychopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 16:52:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11902020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazzafagga/pseuds/Hazzafagga
Summary: one where harry takes advice from his therapist to start a (unhealthy/misleading/vicious) blog under a pseudonym."psycho" harryWILL BE DELETING SOON





	how to: ted bundy

**Author's Note:**

> MUST READ:
> 
> THIS IS A FALSE REPRESENTATION OF PSYCHOPATHY. ALTHOUGH I HAVE BEEN RESEARCHING THIS FOR A COUPLE YEARS NOW, I AM NOT AN EXPERT AND THIS IS NOT A GOOD REPRESENTATION OF THE PSYCHOPATHIC COMMUNITY. PSYCHOPATHS ARE NOT INHERENTLY DANGEROUS PEOPLE. THEY ARE NOT INHERENT MURDERERS, RAPISTS, PEDOPHILES, ETC. A NEUROTYPICAL IS ACTUALLY MORE LIKELY TO COMMIT THESE CRIMES THAN A PSYCHOPATH IS, AS NEUROTYPICALS ARE RUN BY EMOTION WHILE PSYCHOPATHS ARE RUN BY LOGIC. IT IS HARDLY EVER LOGICAL TO COMMIT CRIME AND THEY KNOW THIS. (IN CASE I WASN'T CLEAR: PERSONAL TRAITS ARE *wait for it* PERSONAL!! NOT EVERYONE IS BORING, NOT EVERYONE IS HYPER-SEXUAL, NOT EVERYONE LACKS SEXUALITY, NOT EVERYONE IS ATTRACTED TO CHILDREN, NOT EVERYONE STRUGGLES WITH ANGER MANAGEMENT, ETC, ETC, ETC. THIS INCLUDES PSYCHOPATHS. EVERYONE IS THEIR OWN BEING AND HAS THEIR OWN PERSONALITY.)
> 
> I DEEPLY APOLOGIZE FOR THE GRAPHIC/UNETHICAL CONTENT AND MISREPRESENTATION OF PSYCHOPATHY IN THIS STORY. I HATE THAT I HAVE GIVEN IN TO STIGMA. IT IS VERY DIFFICULT TO FULLY APPLY KNOWLEDGE TO WHAT YOU CANNOT FULLY UNDERSTAND OR EXPERIENCE, NO MATTER HOW SIMPLE THE SUBJECT IS.
> 
> PLEASE DO NOT TAKE ANY FACTS OR IMPLIED FACTS FROM THIS STORY. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE SUBJECTS OF CONDUCT DISORDER, NARCISSISM, SOCIOPATHY, PSYCHOPATHY, PTSD, OCD, SCHIZOPHRENIA, ANXIETY, DEPRESSION, AND ANY OTHER CONDITIONS MENTIONED, DO YOUR OWN RESEARCH. I AM NOT AN EXPERT AND DO NOT STUDY PSYCHOLOGY TRADITIONALLY, AND I DO NOT WISH TO SPREAD FALSE INFORMATION.
> 
> FIN.
> 
> story info:
> 
> ya know the dancing scene??? that one scene where everyone is dancing? yeah when you get there, it's this song playing:
> 
> SWEET BOD - LEMON DEMON
> 
> have fun and take every single thing with a GrAiN oF SaLt !!!!
> 
> (also i'm sorry that the formatting sucks major ass dude i've tried to fix it like 40 times and it goes right back to looking like total shit so if anyone knows what to do about that hmu)

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_my disorder (1)_ **

  

de·pres·sion 

dəˈpreSH(ə)n/

 _noun_  

noun:  **depression** ; plural noun:  **depressions**

 

  1. **1**. 

feelings of severe despondency and dejection.

"self-doubt creeps in and that swiftly turns to depression"

    * PSYCHIATRY

a mental condition characterized by feelings of severe despondency and dejection, typically also with feelings of inadequacy and guilt, often accompanied by lack of energy and disturbance of appetite and sleep.




In my own words, depression is when you're a pussy and cry like a fucking idiot 24/7. If one has depression, it shouldn't suggest they're suicidal, nor does one need to be suicidal in order to validate their depression. It's different for everyone, just like any illness. Depression can cause (or is caused by) lack of motivation, interest in activities one once found enjoyable, appetite (but one might also overeat), and someone with depression has a shitty outlook on life. For those who are wondering about my clinical diagnosis, I'm not depressed.

Like I said at the start of this whole thing, I'm not going to flat out disclose anything super specific about myself, but if you guys like guessing, I can make this a series. Lmk

thur. 3/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_my disorder (2)_**  

 

post-trau·mat·ic stress dis·or·der  

_noun_    

MEDICINE  

 

noun:  **post-traumatic stress disorder** ; noun:  **posttraumatic stress disorder** ; noun:  **post-traumatic stress syndrome** ; noun:  **posttraumatic stress syndrome**

 

  1. a condition of persistent mental and emotional stress occurring as a result of injury or severe psychological shock, typically involving disturbance of sleep and constant vivid recall of the experience, with dulled responses to others and to the outside world




 

PTSD is what soldiers who were active in war get when/if they return home (once referred to as "shell-shock" among other names before it was discovered a disorder). They can feel like they're in danger when triggered. You see an airplane going over your neighbourhood, they see a fighter plane wanting to kill everyone. Symptoms include nightmares, uncontrollable recollection of the event, anxiety and paranoia (like what I described), among other things. Rape victims, vehicle accident survivors, witnesses of traumatic events, etc. can also get this. I don't have PTSD either.

fri. 4/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

_**my disorder (3)**_

 

anx·i·e·ty

aNGˈzīədē/

_noun_

noun:  **anxiety** ; plural noun:  **anxieties**

 

a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome.

 

 

  1.     1.       * PSYCHIATRY

a nervous disorder characterized by a state of excessive uneasiness and apprehension, typically with compulsive behavior or panic attacks.




Anxiety is being a pussy x2. Someone with anxiety lives in fear of embarrassing themselves, not being "good" enough, and they are usually paranoid and almost always stressed. Of all the mental conditions, anxiety will literally go extinct before I'm diagnosed with it. And sorry about the text being so unaligned, I had to copy these definitions separately. It's bothering me like hell, but whatever.

fri. 4/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_my disorder (4)_ **

 

**Obsessive** - **compulsive disorder** ( **OCD** ) is an anxiety  **disorder**  in which people have unwanted and repeated thoughts, feelings, ideas, sensations ( **obsessions** ), or behaviors that make them feel driven to do something ( **compulsions** ).

 

OCD is having the need to do something, usually a ritual, in order to feel at ease. This is considered a form of anxiety because someone with OCD might get paranoid, stressed, agitated, or simply anxious if their rituals aren't performed correctly or certain things aren't "perfect" or even. Excessive cleaning and arranging workspaces isn't the only way people experience OCD. But since I already said I don't have anxiety, you shouldn't be surprised to hear that whoever submitted this, and everyone who voted, is a bloody idiot.

I'm not doing this series anymore. I know I said I'd keep going until you lot figured it out, but you're all shit guessers and it's getting to be quite boring if I'm honest. Just do the research yourselves, it's fun.

sat. 5/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_my sexuality! FAQ (1)_ **

 

Q1: Is Charlie Chamberlain your real name?

A: As far as you know

 

Q2: How old are you?

A: 7

 

Q3: Where are you from?

A: A sperm cell

 

Q4: What's your real name?

A: What your mum screamed in bed last night

 

Q5: Who's your favourite band/artist?

A: I don't have one

 

Q6: What's wrong with you?

A: One leg is nearly an inch longer than the other

 

Q7: What do you look like?

A: Use your imagination

 

Q8: Are you depressed?

A: No

 

Q9: What's your sexuality?

A: Usually I like everything, but personality is a good sex organ as well.

 

Q10: Male or female?

A: Honestly, who knows?

sun. 6/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**   

**_my disorder (5)_**  

 

 

**Antisocial personality disorder** is a mental condition in which a person has a long-term pattern of manipulating, exploiting, or violating the rights of others.

Common ASPD characteristics are deceitfulness, irresponsibility, manipulativeness, aggression, impulsivity, irritability, etc. and the absence of empathy. ASPD is associated with narcissism, psychopathy, and sociopathy, but those with conduct disorder (a diagnosis for non-adults) cannot identify as a psycho/sociopath as their brains aren't fully developed. Don't refer to the movie  _American Psycho_ , it's a heap of horse shit and very much not the same fucking thing.

Google for famous people with ASPD and the first one to come up is Ted Bundy. And with that being said, I'll just state the obvious: we aren't all the same. We are not any more dangerous than anybody else.

sun. 6/5/2015

 

"How was your weekend?"

He looked down at his phone for the sixth time in the hour, scrolling through the many comments inquiring about his latest post as quickly as possible whilst thinking up an answer. "Good," he said, tucking the mobile underneath his leg.

"What was good about it?"

"I don't know." He looked at the dark beige wall. "I wrote a bit."

"Yeah? What sort of things did you write?"

"Definitions."

The man across him nodded slowly, leaning so far out of his chair that he could have fallen, but he didn't. "May I ask what kind?"

"Psychiatric."

"Is that something your readers enjoy?" the man wondered. "Psychiatric definitions?"

Shrugging, he said, "Yeah."

"What about you? Do you enjoy it?"

He couldn't have been more intrigued by the question, which could have been mistaken because his meaning of intrigue didn't meet those of most others. Not too typically was he asked what he did or didn't enjoy rather than what he used to enjoy or not enjoy. It was refreshing to figure that he was interesting enough to be the centre of someone's curiosities - to be genuinely asked about his current hobbies, his talents, his whereabouts made him feel interesting. But he was not interesting.

A sort of awkward expression became on his face as he sat up straight, uncrossing his legs. "They wanted to know what's wrong with me," Harry said, flicking his hair out of his eyes. "I didn't tell them straight, they guessed. They thought I was depressed at first, but I said I'm not."

"Right."

"They decided I've got anxiety, then PTSD and some other shit. Only last night someone went for ASPD, so I confirmed it, but I haven't really looked at the comments yet... I don't know, I just write about myself and what's been going on."

"Do you write because you enjoy it or is it for your readers?"

"I like to write. It's something I usually do when I'm bored, so I'm fine with this exercise for now. I wouldn't say it's for anyone, but if I had to choose a reason for keeping up with it, I'd say you. Since you're my therapist and I respect your advice, I'll try whatever you suggest."

Again, Doctor Miller slowly nodded, a gesture that didn't sit right in Harry's stomach usually, and scribbled something down in his notepad. "Okay."

Harry observed the pen racing about, each twiddle, and listened to the sound it made against the thick line of pages. "What are you writing?" he mumbled, shaking one of his legs.

Doctor Miller looked up from the paper to smile at him. "What you've just told me."

"What's that?"

He somehow found humour in Harry's apprehension, grinning to himself as though trying to suppress laughter. "You're getting a bit uneasy, Harry," he informed his patient as if he didn't know how he felt. "What's bothering you?"

"I'm not uneasy. I was just asking a question." The boy started to breathe slower than usual, dropping his chin to look at the short fray on his jumper. He must have not chosen his words as carefully as he intended, for Doctor Miller had written something in his notepad which listed all of the things that were the matter with his patient. That is where he'd jotted down Harry's diagnosis the first day they met, as Harry had awareness of his poor mental health months prior and informed him of his disorder as they shook hands, but there was no telling what else lied in that book of secrets that Harry knew yet didn't. He pulled out his phone.

Doctor Miller sighed. "Harry."

He pulled up his current game of chess against a Korean-Canadian man called Judas.

"Harry, I just want to chat to you. I'd like you to put away the phone."

He moved his Rook a few spaces, waited for his opponent's retaliation, then stole his Knight.

"Tell me what you're feeling." The doctor got his pen ready.

"Bored," Harry said lowly. "Annoyed."

"Why?"

He still would not look up. "You're fucking with me, so I'd rather just do this."

"I'm not."

"I asked you a question and you wouldn't answer. Not that you're inclined to answer any of my questions, though it would be nice since I answer almost all of yours. But anyway, the conversation died, so that's why I'm bored. You're also giving me that weird look, which is half the annoying part."

"What's the other half?" Doctor Miller wondered.

"If you're going to lie about what you write about me, don't put a shit-eating grin on. Can I go?"

"No, you can't. Put your phone away."

Dropping his mobile on the hardwood floor, Harry looked his therapist dead in the eyes. The man instantaneously shivered underneath his jumper, regardless of whether Harry meant to cause him discomfort or not.

"Harry..." Doctor Miller warned.

"So why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Fuck with me." He rose to his feet to move toward the window. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not mad. I just find it strange that you write down everything I say no matter how bullshit it sounds. You know I lie to you, right?"

"I'm aware that you're capable of lying to me, yes, but I would prefer if you didn't."

"Okay. I won't lie anymore, you know, as a courtesy to you. In turn, can you do something for me?"

The doctor turned his head sideways, interested yet cautious. "If it helps you, of course."

Tapping his fingertips against the brick windowpane, noting the traffic jamming the main route to his flat, he coughed, and rubbed his sore shoulder before glancing over it. He looked at his therapist's worn, tan face, frowning brown eyes caused by his obvious sleep-deprivation, all the unfortunate things like the grandiose birthmarks muddling his skin... and then there was his hair. He had lovely grey hair and a thick beard. Harry found elder people fairly attractive at times because of their aging features, and considered Dylan Miller's maturity quite handsome. Despite those qualities, Harry didn't like him. To him, Doctor Miller was too inquisitive, though it was his job to pry, and passive. Harry didn't care for passive people - not to say he cared for assertive people either. He simply respected that some used logic and reasoning the way that he did. He also loved a good challenge, whatever it may be. So regarding his thoughts, he smiled at the man and turned to fully face him. "You know how I'm on medication?"

Of course he knew. Harry felt so stupid asking.

The doctor nodded.

"Well, since starting it, I've been..." Attempting to blush, and to no avail, Harry played with his hair and twirled the curly ends round his fingers. "There's been some trouble with certain things. I wanted to know if you could help me with it."

"Absolutely," Doctor Miller chimed immediately. He flipped to a new page in his notepad and licked the point of his pen. "Come sit down, we—"

"No notes though."

Bringing his eyes up from the paper, he was reluctant to oblige by the request, but pocketed the notepad anyway. "Okay... Okay, sure."

Harry smiled sensually, with gracious attitude, pulling his hair to the side as he prowled across the room. A low tune on his lips, he slipped his hands on the man's shoulders and leaned over him.

Doctor Miller groaned. "Harry, stop," he demanded, tilting away.

"What?" The boy was being deceitfully coaxing. "Don't you want to help me?"

"Emotionally. Psychologically."

"This could be emotional."

"I can't do this."

With his hands remaining where they should not have been, he ran his fingers down the man's chest, his stomach, thighs, before teasing at the hem of his jumper. Rather scandalously, Harry felt good about touching someone this way and left his hips squirming in his jeans after some time of taunting. "You don't need to do anything," the boy quietly said. "Just relax."

"This is extremely inappropriate."

He didn't listen or respond.

"I could lose my job," Doctor Miller continued to tell him, removing the greedy hands from his body. "Not to mention the endangerment of your health. Your health comes first to me and it should to you, as well. You should be worried about that."

"'Worry.'" Harry stood straight as his therapist stood up, his gaze falling upon the other's face, and then it was properly fastened on his lower abdomen. "It's just a word to me. I'm not worried."

"You're willing to throw away everything you've worked for? What's your reason for therapy then, if not for yourself?"

"Either this or a mental institution." He let the man back away from him until they reached the couch, so then Harry sat him down right in the middle. He climbed onto his lap before he could get pushed off. "Have you thought of this before?"

"You need to control yourself. Get up."

"Yeah?" There was no easier way to address the bulge in the man's trousers than to physically address it. Harry ground against him there, allowing the doctor to struggle beneath him, his hands busy roaming that beautiful, soft grey hair. "Don't you want to help my little problem? You're halfway there as it is." Harry wiggled his hips a little more. "Can you feel how hard you're making me, Dylan?"

"That's enough! Get off!"

Leaning in very, very closely - very urgently - breathing in short, lusty gasps with an occasional moan here and there, the 25-year-old patient whispered into the man's ear. "Am I a bad boy?" he said very hushed. "Do I need to be spanked?"

In just a moment, Harry was falling to the floor and hitting the back of his head against the centre table.

The man had stood up, leaving his patient aching and vulnerable, apparently, and fixed his beautiful grey hair as he opened for the door. "I'll see you on Wednesday."

Harry stood up without thought and left the room. He didn't look at the other, didn't say a word, didn't flush, didn't shy away, didn't even roll his eyes to express how angry he was because he wasn't angry. There was no need to pretend either, so Harry stood out in the corridor facing the elder man until the door closed again, and then Harry pulled a small notepad from behind his back.

Upon flipping through the pages, and whilst adjusting himself in his jeans, Harry discovered that Doctor Miller was just the kind of therapist he presumed he was, still. Harry found the words "misunderstood", "humourous" and "circumstantially charismatic" written at the start of the entries, and "choleric" and "self-aware" towards his current place. The boy turned the book sideways and squinted at a small note which read:

Why Frida Velasquez??

At this time Harry did roll his eyes. "Cunt," he swore, and then left the building.

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_my therapist is an idiot_ **

I stole my therapist's notebook. I wanted to know what he wrote about me, but it isn't much what I expected. I expected him to write something inferring that I'm a danger to society on account of a specific event in my life that I won't discuss. As you all know, I'm running this blog because my therapist wants me to talk about myself in a positive way. I don't enjoy talking about myself, but I don't have a problem doing this, so I'll do it.

So my therapist wrote in his notes that I'm funny, charismatic, and in tune with myself. I think that's somewhat accurate. I like my sense of humour, and I am charismatic in some situations, but he would have no way of knowing that I'm in tune with myself because I've never told him that. I've only been seeing him for three weeks so it doesn't make much sense that he would say that, but regardless, I agree. I'll return his notebook next time I see him.

mon. 7/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_my religion! Q &A (1)_ **

 

Q1: what's ur fav song atm

A: No favourite, but I'm currently listening to Suspicious Minds by Elvis Presley

 

Q2: What are your hobbies/talents?

A: Buying clothes

 

Q3: What's ur favorite color?

A: Whoever asked this is a dumbarse

 

Q4: What's your favourite number?

A: Same as #3

 

Q5: Have you seen the movie Hard Candy?

A: Yes

 

Q6: What's the scariest dream you've had ?

A: I don't get scared of my dreams and don't remember them in that way. Frankly, I have no idea.

 

Q7: What makes you happiest in the world? :)

A: ????

 

Q8: Any pets?

A: No

 

Q9: how many therapists have you had

A: I’ll have to ask my mum

 

Q10: Have you ever broke a bone?

A: No, my sister broke it

 

Q11: Who's your favorite band?

A: I get this type of question a lot, so I guess I'll elaborate.

These "what's your favourite" questions I'm not too keen on. I don't have favourite things, or at least not in the way you expect me to have them. I guess I would say The Four Seasons is my favourite band (though they were a vocal group), but that would be because Frankie sings quite high in his register. I appreciate that he sings higher than most men and I respect that he never altered his singing voice too much. There are some particular qualities in his voice and style that I like, but that doesn't make him my favourite. I don't listen to The Four Seasons more than any other band, it's just that their music is the most catchy and vocally impressive. Of course, that's just my opinion.

 

Q12: What's your religion if you have one?

A: I’m not religious

 

Q13: If you could fuck any celebrity, who would it be?

A: Everyone I know says Juno Temple, so I guess Juno Temple

 

Q14: Hi Charlie!! Are you a virgin?

A: HELL NO!!!!

 

Q15: prefer boys or girls

A: Generally, I have no preference

 

Q16: when is your birthday

A: The day I was born

 

Q17: I love you so much, marry me king!!!!!

A: Back off??

 

Q18: Do you have any siblings? If so, boy/girl/other?

A: Yes, a sister

 

Q19: Burgers or hotdogs?

A: Hotdogs are for chumps

 

Q20: Best fuck you've ever had?

A: He tied my hands together, pulled my hair, spanked me and choked me

mon. 7/5/2015

 

The next day, on a Tuesday, Harry went to work. He worked as a translator for deaf university students. It did shock some people to learn that he spoke English sign language fluently, but he had reason. Donovan, his brother, was hard of hearing, which caused Harry to learn the language at a relatively young age. Harry did not have a sister regardless of what he'd liked to tell his blog readers. He had one brother, a stepbrother and stepsister whom he didn't speak of, one mother, one father whom he didn't visit, and a stepfather and stepmother, though he didn't speak of them either and hardly considered them his parents. As well as his background, he would lie about how long he'd been seeing Doctor Miller. For the better part of three years, their therapy sessions went on and off as (and this was true) Harry sought out other doctors who might have been able to “help” him, as his parents would say. Besides recommending Harry to mental institutions on a count of the stories he'd told them, sadly, apparently, help never came.

"The essay is due on Friday," Harry said to Elle, one of his deaf students, whilst her professor released the class. "Bring your course book and don't forget this room is going to be under renovation." He handed her a slip of paper with the displaced lecture hall room number. "Go there."

She thanked him with a hug and kissed his face, tipping him an extra £7 to his twenty for the day.

He drove across campus to translate for the next student, went to have lunch, then returned two hours later to translate for another. In just one day, he made £67, and translating English into sign language wasn't his primary source of income. He knew it was immoral in some cases which didn't at all concern him, but he got payed to write essays for anyone who needed an affordable, quality paper as soon as possible. Since Harry had taken French courses throughout secondary school and college, he wrote a two-page informative essay on the cultures of many French-speaking African countries, supplied with prepared notes and facts, under an hour for £30. He later typed a paper on transgender rights for a 16-year-old who was a part of the LGBT community in some way for £25, then another similar paper for twice as much. Impressively, he could earn £700 a week easily.

With his new money, he went out shopping on Wednesday. The shop he often went to was called Zara. He liked shopping in the women's section for shirts if they carried a large enough size, only ever going through the men's department in search for jeans or shoes.

He was intently eying the price tag of a red and gold button-down when he noticed a boy walk in.

With a single glance in his direction, Harry never thought he could look over someone a second time so quickly. This boy was nineteen. It was written all over him - written in dark ink on his face, his body, his attitude that stretched widely across the room. His voice traveled weightlessly, ringing like Christmas bells in Harry's blessed ears, and all his voluptuousness looked to be so much for a boy of just nineteen. The curvature of his hips rounded in his jeans, the swallow in his lower back, the dips in his collarbones that screamed adolescence, feeding Harry lies in every sense, were merciless.

Harry watched him move toward the back of the shop with a boy and a girl following him, his eyes trained on him absolutely. He reminded himself that he was permitted to find beauty (relative proportions, clear skin, signs of self-worth, intimidating features and softer ones, confidence, and uniqueness) in other people, and even sought them out if he wanted to. However, socially, he was obligated to come off as anything but clinically antisocial. He prolonged his gaze regardless, watching this boy from the corner of the shop like he owned that view.

But the boy caught him staring. He'd looked over his shoulder and spotted Harry at a women's shirts rack, and they both reverted their eyes simultaneously.

Harry was indecisive. He was never so enthralled, though that was an overstatement in itself. He didn't want to look away, but he had to respond as such.

Before Harry could get caught scrutinising again, he fled to the men's side to search for new shoes. He got ahold of a pair of black creepers, had paced the walls for matching black socks, and then came face to face with the boy he fancied.

“Oh!” Harry said as though he was startled, taking a side step. “Sorry, I’m in your way.”

"No, you're fine." He avoided Harry's eyes as he walked past, but once he'd gotten far enough, he looked over his shoulder again.

Harry smiled, sure to appear as interested as possible, not at all shocked to see the boy blush and turn away.

Harry might have done something about their back/forward glances - might have spoken to the boy with the sheer confidence that he had - except the boy's friends started whispering about him. They took several looks his way, measuring his personality which definitely was not shining through his skin, though he could never be 100 percent sure. To diminish the potential of some kind of scene, Harry moved back to the women's department and looked at the shirt he'd seen earlier.

Together, the creepers and button-down cost £98.79, which wouldn't break him. However, he considered stealing and wearing them out of the building, but remembering that he was on his way to getting on his family's good side, he chose not to. Harry could purchase the two items, go to the other couple shops he liked and still be able to buy dinner before seeing Doctor Miller.

The moment he placed the shirt to his torso to visually check the fit, that same stranger to him was neatly approaching.

"Hi," the lad said, smiling at the red and gold shirt and then at Harry's pretty face.

It only took a moment for Harry to smile back. "Hey."

"You should get this. It's real nice."

"You reckon?" He looked at the shirt again. "I don't know if it's my size, though, and this is the last one."

The boy took a step back to get a good look at him with the button-down, admiring the colours and style complimenting those of Harry. "Yeah, looks great on you," the boy told him.

“Well, thanks very much."

"Its okay. I'm Louis."

"Harry," he replied, taking the hand that the other put out to shake. "Lovely to meet you."

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_boys_ **

 

I've gotten a boy's number today. He's called Levi and he is quite attractive. I won't describe what he looks like for obvious reasons, but trust me when I say that he is at least an 8/10, which is extremely good according to my standards. Most people I find visually appealing are no less than a seven, and if they are, then their personalities, attitudes, confidence, etc. are heavily considered. Not that I don't consider all of that to begin with. It's only more vital at this point. Levi is at least an eight in each aspect.

My therapist says I shouldn't be in a relationship just yet, but if you ever saw this boy... He's fit. I swear, just thinking about him is making me horny, so I guess I'll stop here.

wed. 9/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_my last relationship! Q &A (2)_ **

 

Q1: How was your day? :))

A: Fine

 

Q2: Levi aint his real name is it

A: He is called Levi, and what you're missing in your question is called an apostrophe.

 

Q3: nigga how tfff did yo sis break your arm LOL

A: She hit me with her car

 

Q4: If you could travel anywhere in time and space right now, where would you go?

A: There's nowhere in time and space that I urgently need to go to this very second, and I wouldn't want to bend time anyway. Personally, I don't care for the past or the unforeseeable future. A better question would be: If all expenses were taken care of, where would you go? Answer: Texas because I want to experience actual hot weather, but not hot enough to where I would die of a heat stroke.

 

Q5: I know u most likely won't tell us her real name so what do we call ur sister ?

A: She's Gemma

 

Q6: Lana Del Ray ?????

A: I’m not a massive fan, but I like Radio.

 

Q7: Forks or spoons?

A: Why are you an idiot?

 

Q8: Sorry, not to sound too nosey, but on your last relationship, did you end it, did they, or was it mutual? Love you by the way!!

A: You're already nosey if you're reading my blog... It was mutual.

 

Q9: YOURE A PEDO???????

A: I suppose so

 

Q10: You didn't actually get "Levi's" number did you? You're such a goddamn liar, I bet Charlie isn't even you're real name

A: Dickhead, go back to school

wed. 9/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**  

**_a few words_**

 

dick·head

 

'dikˌhed/

_noun_

vulgar slang 

 

 

  1. a stupid, irritating, or ridiculous person, particularly a man.




 

A dickhead is a dumbarse who is also a prick. One might call their idiot of a mate a dickhead, or maybe even their dog for throwing up on the carpet and trying to lick it clean. I like to say dickhead because it's funny and rolls off the tongue.

 

 

fuck·er

ˈfəkər/

_noun_

vulgar slang

 

 

 

noun:  **fucker** ; plural noun:  **fuckers**

  1. a contemptible or stupid person (often used as a general term of abuse).




 

You call someone a fucker when they've done something stupid and uncalled for. You can call your dad a fucker if he gets shitfaced at your birthday party. You can call a cab driver a fucker if he ignores you trying to get him to pick you up. My sister says, "I'm going to throw your albums out the window," so I say, "I'll kick you in the teeth, you stupid fucker." This word is great because it's always relevant.

wed. 9/5/2015

 

"Sit down, Harry!"

The boy wanted to throw the hourglass at the wall, but with his cellphone clutched in his hand, he didn't figure it a good idea. "Sod off, you nosey fucker!" he swore, his skin a bit too warm. "Who do you think you are? You can't just go through people's phones like that."

"I was just looking at what we both agreed you would show me. Now, sit down."

"No, you weren't."

Doctor Miller remained completely leveled as he made mental note of his patient's mild temperament. "What do you think I was trying to look at?"

Harry grimaced. "Nothing," he declared, shoving his phone into his back pocket. "You exited the app, you probably wanted to look through something."

"What would I look through?"

"My nudes, for all I fucking know." It wasn't true - Harry didn't take lewd photos.

"You can trust me, Harry. I won't look at anything on your phone that you don't want me to. I need you to remember that this is a sa—"

"Yeah, it's a safe space. I know. Can I go now?"

Doctor Miller read the time off the wall clock. "You've nearly just got here." He refused to falter as Harry bunch up his fists, his jagged breathing the loudest noise in the room. "Come sit down."

Knowing better than to act this way for too long during a session, Harry bit back every retaliation he had laying round in his head and seated himself at the end of the couch.

Doctor Miller inspected him for a long time. He watched the way his clawed at his nail beds, bit his lips to make them red and irritated, his process of jumping from annoyed to curious to bored which was entirely evident in his eyes. The man watched the rising and falling of his chest until it slowed to a steady pace he was comfortable with, then took out his notepad to ask a few more questions.

"What are you listening to at the moment?" said Doctor Miller.

"The Cars."

"Yeah? Are The Four Seasons still your favourite band?"

"I don't have a favourite band."

"Right. Do you tell your readers what you listen to?"

He nodded.

"Great." Doctor Miller licked his lips. "What other things have you told them about?"

"You already saw."

"No, I don't think I got to read everything. But you don't have to show me on your phone. You can just tell me if you'd like."

His chin almost flush against his chest as he looked down his shirt for a second, Harry mumbled a single word too softly to make out.

"Speak up."

The boy sat straight and rolled his eyes, looking at his therapist as though he might have wanted to kill him. "I said, 'sex.'"

"Sex?" Doctor Miller repeated, a judgmental smirk growing on his mouth. "What about sex?"

"They ask me about it."

"But you enjoy talking about it?"

Harry shrugged, voicing a, "Not really," as he bit a hangnail off his thumb. "It's not necessarily fun, but it's interesting to read messages afterward."

"Is it? What makes it interesting?"

"They tell me what they think of me." He looked at the man from the corner of his eye, past his curtain of hair as he nibbled on his nail a bit more. "They'll say shit like, 'Oh, you're so sexy,' and, 'You would be so good in bed. I need to fuck you at least once.' I get quite a few nudes a day from straight girls, gay men, people who are just bicurious. I think it's interesting because their sex lives must be so boring that they have to send a raunchy photo to a complete random... But then it got me thinking. I'm not saying I would ever send a stranger a dick pic or anything, but my sex life is a bit lame, too, as it goes. Talking about fucking someone isn't as good as actually doing it - I'm sure you can agree. Or if not, then..." He shrugged. "I just mean that, for me personally, nothing is better than sex. At least nothing physical." And then he nodded at the thought. "I just really, really like it."

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_BDSM_ **

 

I chatted with my therapist about sex and BDSM. He said he's glad that I still have a good sex drive, considering how fucked up on medication I've been. Talking about BDSM with him got me horny, which I'm quite sure he noticed, but he didn't think anything of it. Because I know you'll all flood my comment boxes, call me a sex addict and try to degrade me based off of absolutely nothing, it's my obligation to correct you before that happens. My therapist is boring and annoying as fuck. I'd never go for him, but he does have nice hair.

Anyway, chatting and writing about sex and BDSM gets me thinking about Levi, and thinking about Levi and BDSM makes quite horny, so I'll probably go.

Tell me if you lot want another series.

wed. 9/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_more BDSM_ **

 

**BDSM**

An overlapping abbrevation of Bondage and Discipline (BD), Dominance and Submission (DS), Sadism and Masochism (SM).

 

BDSM is the shit they do in 50 Shades of Gray. If you've never heard of that film, I don't know where you've been. BDSM involves exercising wild kinks, sometimes fetishes, like choking, spanking, bondage, the lot whilst being intimate with someone. I really do love BDSM.

thur. 10/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

_**my wildest sexual fantasy! Q &A (3)** _

 

Q1: Dominant or submissive??

A: I don't submit. When I do, it's so the other person only thinks they are in control and feels more confident in what they are doing when, in fact, I'm giving all of the orders.

 

Q2: Do you own any bondage gear?

A: No

 

Q3: Are you a sadist/masochist?

A: I'm just going to state now that I don't consider myself either a sadist or a masochist.

There's a difference between good sex (by my standards) and deriving pleasure from beating the piss out of someone. Some sadists wouldn't necessarily differentiate the two, though one would be sexual and the other most likely wouldn't be. In either scenario, an extreme sadist would probably enjoy beating someone half to death, if not completely to death, which is why it's interesting to me. I understand sexual sadism, sort of, but at any other time it would not be pleasant to me.

Masochism is a bit different. Some of those who say they're masochists often don't realise that they truly aren't. No one that I personally know, including myself, can get off from pain that isn't consensual. (Masochism exists outside of foreplay just like sadism, but I won't get into it any further than this.) People who enjoy pain when it's sexualised don't typically want to be in pain any other time, so that's where the line is drawn. If you consider yourself a masochist but also have a safe word, you probably aren't a masochist.

Long story short, I'm not sadistic though some people would love to disagree. You want to cry during sex, fine. As long as you're still consenting, I have no problem with it. Unless the sounds you make are annoying, then please stop. I'll do whatever you want to get you off if I care to do so. If it's just a one-nighter, could not give two fucks about your orgasm.

**Edit:**  I don't have a safe word, for those asking. If your partner doesn't back off when you tell them to, punch them in the throat and leave.

 

Q4: wwyd if you find levi naked in ur bed

A: Ask him how he got in my flat?

 

Q5: Wildest sexual fantasy go

A: Another time

 

Q6: Have you got a favourite porn ?

A: UHHHH

 

Q7: Juno Temple in what costume?

A: Birthday suit

 

Q8: First BDSM experience?

A: "He tied my hands together, pulled my hair, spanked me and choked me" (Q&A 1).

 

Q9: p sure ur a paedophile????

A: I guess

 

Q10: Choose one for the rest of your life: spanking, choking or hair pulling?

A: No

thur. 10/5/2015

 

"You don't like ice cream?"

Harry looked at the big, pink glob of Sonny & Sid, his face contorting disapprovingly. "That's not ice cream, it's frozen yoghurt," he corrected.

"Oh, so you're a jackass. I'll make a note of that." Louis tapped the side of his head and winked. "Why don't you like frozen yoghurt then, you little shit?"

"I'm vegan," Harry laughed.

He smiled, shoveling yoghurt into his mouth. "How long has that been going on?"

"A few years."

"So what do you eat?"

"The vegan sort of normal food. Like pizza."

"Shall we get one?"

A little grin wriggled its way to Harry's lips, and in no time, became a grin to poke at his dimples. "No," he said, light laughter itching at his voice. "Let's go to mine."

As they began walking away from the yoghurt shop, the heat of May crashing down on their heads, Louis hummed in deep, expressive thought. "Well..." He was playing coy. "We have been on a couple dates. And you are quite nice, but you did forget to ring me back last night."

Harry had a difficult time trying to decipher what precisely he meant - flipped back and forth between humour and total seriousness. Louis did use a grave amount of banter, a way of language Harry was very used to, but toyed with it differently. It became a challenge to keep up - Harry would occasionally ignore him and pretend he hadn't said anything at all. This was one of those times; if Harry couldn't figure out how to respond soon enough, he'd resort to frustration the way he had when Louis wore a shirt reading "MY BODY MY CHOICE" though it was completely satirical because it was meant to support life. In this moment, he didn't want to state that he was too busy to call or might have been sleeping even though he wasn't. He considered forgetting all about inviting Louis to his flat, but it was physically painful to think that he might never have Louis in his home, and he wanted that very much.

"Joking," Louis said almost immediately. "You don't have to worry about me being clingy or anything."

Harry nodded and put his arm round the boy's shoulders. "So we should go then."

"Have you got a cat?"

"No."

"Not interested."

Upon arrival, after driving nearly half an hour through Cheshire listening to The Four Seasons, Harry made sure to kick off his shoes by the front door. (He never did this in his own flat - only exercised this gesture entering other homes - to seem more put together than he truly was.) Louis mirrored him thoughtlessly, having been captivated by the dull blankness of the room. 

"No decoration?" Louis chuckled as he scratched his ear.

"I don't like it."

"What about photos? You don't wanna see your family's faces entirely coating your living room walls?"

Harry facially shrugged, going into the kitchen and allowing Louis to sit in a tall chair at the counter. "Do you want something to drink?" Harry asked him.

"Water's fine, thanks."

"Sorry, I'm out."

The boy made a humourous face. "Of water?"

Harry didn't keep the joke going for too long. His slow smile had given it away, so he took a glass from the cupboard and filled it up, handing it over to his date to watch him drink. Harry studied the way his throat moved, the wet sound it made each time he gulped, turning his head backward farther and farther as the water emptied inside of him. Harry waited patiently for the final sip, anticipating the heavy huff of air Louis held in his chest, hoping that that sign of relief, satisfaction, pleasure, would put Harry at ease. And it did, very much so.

"Thanks," Louis sighed, wiping his mouth with his fingers. "It's so hot out today, I'm sweating like a maniac. My arse is, like, wet--"

"Can I kiss you?"

They shared shamelessly carnal glances, though Louis dismissed them shortly thereafter to examine the kitchen's tidiness. Whilst he did, Harry refilled the glass and set it aside, prowling round the counter toward the small boy.

He was nervous. Harry could see that. He could see it in Louis' eyes that wouldn't look at him directly and felt it radiating off of him. He found that the lad's cheeks were flush with embarrassment, pink and innocent and enthusiastically enticing.

He reached for his face, sweeping Louis' fringe out of the way. As they made eye contact, certain phrases in no specific order ran straight through Harry's conscience. He fought the need to ask Louis if he'd like to go upstairs, as this question shoved itself unto him in many unappealing forms, thus noticing the small yet significant obstruction growing on the surface of his excitement like a tumor. He was unsure of what to do - how to go about it, Harry placed his hands on the boy's neck and kissed him, his arousal spiking instantly. The suspense in wanting to tackle him slowly started to die down, but came back up with the image of Louis in his bed that he craved. But he couldn't request something so sudden from him. He had to behave calmly and responsibly with Louis' body and trust.

Deftly, Louis set his palms on the man's biceps, his fingers slipping underneath the short sleeves of his shirt. And for a while, they remained kissing each other in silence despite Harry's screeching thoughts, until the 19-year-old lad pushed him away.

"Wait," Louis said, hopping off the chair. "Let me use the toilet. That glass of water just hit me."

Harry bit his lips, starting to pinch them with his nails. "Down the corridor."

The boy rushed to the back of the flat and slammed the bathroom door behind himself. Once hearing the lock click, Harry pulled out his cellphone with urgency, calling the single person in his "favourites" of contacts.

"Good afternoon, Harry—"

"What happens if I have sex?"

The line went quiet. "Sorry?"

"You said I shouldn't be in a relationship right now," Harry explained, speaking as monotonously as he could. "And I think you made it clear that I shouldn't be having sex either."

"Why?" Doctor Miller pressed. "Are you thinking of becoming sexually active?"

"Yeah."

"Well..." He sighed and cleared his throat. "I can't stop you from doing what you want. But, yes, I recommend you stay out of romantic and sexual relationships for now. And, to answer your question, I don't know what would happen if you had sex."

"What?" Harry flicked his hair out of his face. "Would I not be able to get it up or something?"

"From what you've told me, no, I don't think sex drive would be an issue for you. It's that you've just started seeing me again after almost seven months. I'm not sure how you'll psychologically react if you do something like this."

"What if I didn't take my medication?"

"Are you not taking it? You  _need_  to take your medication, Harry."

"I know that!" His voice having risen slightly, he checked the corridor to ensure that Louis hadn't come out yet. "I'm just saying, what if I didn't?"

"Then you'd run the risk of hurting yourself or someone else. You're taking Prozac for a reason—"

"So put me on something else." Harry had started walking about his living room in all attempts to speed up the phone call. "You're mainly trying to handle my temper. Aren't depressants good for the that?"

"It won't help you. Your emotions, they're already so muted."

He couldn't have held his phone any tighter if he wanted to, and he did. "Why don't you just cut my fucking dick off?!" Harry shouted. "This is bullshit!"

"For your own sake, Harry, do not have sex." For the first time in a long time - in years - Doctor Miller seemed frustrated with him. "You aren't stable enough—"

Harry threw his phone at the wall, dividing the screen from the body and the intestines from the whole, indefinitely hanging up on his therapist for the  _n_ th time over twenty. Destroying his own property didn't make him feel any better, for he started to curse and run his fingers through the roots of his hair - groaning and pacing, groaning and pacing. He wanted to punch a hole in the drywall, or stab it, but he couldn't. Harry wasn't alone in his flat. He did want to punch his therapist at times - certainly, he did. He wanted to hurt a lot of people, which is not what made him the way he was. If anything, that is what would have made him "normal", but since he was himself and very far from social normalcy, he couldn't act on impulse. He simply wouldn't allow it. What he lacked in emotion that he should have been born with, he made up for in charisma and self-fulfillment. Those two factors were a perilous combination.

Harry sighed, letting go of his beautiful, distressed hair, and turned back for the kitchen.

Louis was stood in the corridor silently, the water from his freshly washed hands dripping everywhere as he held his arms up, as if it would prevent the carpet from getting wet.

They stared from opposite sides of the room, afraid of what the other might do or say. But Louis had broken the quietude.

"Have you got a towel?" he muttered, his voice preciously puny.

Harry didn't respond. He remained there for a moment until he began a slow, predatory walk toward the boy, causing Louis to take little steps backwards. It was only a matter of time before Harry frightened him, then so unbearably close to his quivering body, and attacked his mouth with his own.

Louis was unreceptive at first, had politely wrestled him by refusing to touch his skin with his wet hands, but surrendered an easy battle. He wrapped his arms round the boy's neck, grabbing at his shirt as Harry grabbed at his waist, bum and thighs as he lifted him up. And when Louis whined into his mouth, Harry slammed him onto the wall, beginning to draw love bites on his neck, jawline and collarbones.

"Fuck..." Louis moaned, nearly breathless to begin with.

Harry could feel his jeans growing tighter, rubbing against the boy so that he might feel it, too. "God, you're so sweet," Harry pined, unapologetically licking his throat. "I could just eat you up."

 

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_sex_ **

 

So as you know, I haven't posted anything in a while, but it's because I've been busy, if I'm honest. But I came with news I think you'll all want to know about.

Levi and I fucked last night. He's quite kinky... and loud. So loud, I had to cover his mouth so my neighbours wouldn't hear, but I probably would've done that anyway. I'm almost positive you lot want to know exactly how it happened, where it happened, what we did, the like. I wouldn't mind telling you if the circumstances were different, but I shouldn't elaborate. However, there are some things I can say, for all the nosy ones out there. There were knickers, candles and some Weezer tunes.

I don't really know when I'll see him again, which is fine because I'll be working, and that also might affect my activity, so get a life whilst I'm gone.

fri. 18/5/2015

 

On the first morning of the weekend, Harry played video games with his brother.

After slaving away through the university campus, following deaf students round to aid them in their every lesson, and typing pages upon pages of essays until the late night, Harry thought to treat himself to see his brother in London.

Unlike the facts on the Charlie Chamberlain blog, aside from the sister Gemma being male in reality, Donovan was one of the most uninfluenced young boys Harry had ever met. And Donovan Styles was not nearly as old as what was made of his character. He was thirteen and only half-related, with blond hair and brown eyes and shy, scattered freckles on his face. He lived in London with their father who was hardly ever home, stuck indoors with a school teacher and a nanny most days. He had recently reached the age to stay in the house on his lonesome, so when that time came round, Harry was taking visits nonstop.

"Mate, fuck off," Harry said, pushing at the side of Donovan's head.

"What are you doing?!" Donovan smacked his brother's hand away, frantically clicking the remote buttons. "You're gonna get me killed!"

"Oh, are you crying? Like a little pussy?"

"Don't be a dick."

The elder boy laughed just before their Zombies session ended with Donovan dying and Harry refusing to revive him for the fun of it, putting Harry near the top of the score board and Donovan toward the end.

The younger lad groaned. "Fuck this thing," he said, jabbing his controller into the floor where he sat. "I swear, you show up just so you can beat me."

"It's your fault you suck."

"I bloody don't!" He tackled his brother with his tiny hands, playfully punching him all over as Harry cowered and pretended to get seriously injured. "You cheat! You're a cheater!"

"Get off me, dickhead!" Harry shouted, ignoring the barking dogs in the kennels. "I'll kick you in the nuts!"

"I could beat you if you didn't cheat every single time! God, Harry, you're such rubbish!"

"And you're a faggot."

Donovan's eyes went wide, his jaw dropping violently before he screamed with laughter and jumping onto his bare feet. "In what world!" he hollered, throwing his head back. "Show me where I'm gay and you're not. Show me."

"Fuck off, cunt," Harry said.

"Show me where. Just tell me."

"You'll see when I knock you the fuck out."

"Brilliant."

Harry rolled his eyes and sat up, holding his hand out to his brother who grinned at him. "You hit me too hard," Harry lied. "Help me up."

There was a period of uncertainty. Donovan looked at him for a brief moment, scratching his forehead in thought, the smile on his white face slipping away as this request of Harry's was almost completely ill-character. It confused him to hear his brother ask for help, even if just jokingly for Harry was known in his family for being so humourously blunt, but also known to be somewhat manipulative. Harry had never done or said anything to truly hurt the kid, but there were stories and then there were  _stories._  Donovan didn't know what to believe.

He was hesitant, but pulled Harry up with great leverage and quickly let go.

And then the backdoor opened.

Donovan froze. "Someone's home!" he shrieked.

"Now?"

"Get out!" He attempted to push Harry across the room toward the closet at the end of the corridor, but was unsuccessful. "God, just move!"

Annoyedly, Harry shoved the boy away, stomping into the living room where he snatched his car keys. "So you're ashamed of me, as well?" he mumbled, jamming his shoes onto his feet.

"What?"

Not wanting to reiterate what he'd said, he signed the words.

"No," Donovan promised. "I just don't want you to get in trouble."

"I'm a grown man, Donnie. I don't need a 13-year-old to protect me."

"Fine." The kid threw his arms in defeat. "Whatever. Just hurry up and go—"

"Harry?"

The two boys looked up at a woman standing in the room with them, bags of groceries down to her ankles and fading happiness absent from her face in seconds. She stared at them as they stared at her, all three too choked up to move. Along with their agitation, the woman's husband appeared from behind her.

He eyed the two lads in disbelief, indecisive about who to give his attention. He seemed absolutely horrified for the first few seconds of encountering Harry Styles at his front door, yet put on a guise of objection before anyone could say a thing.

"What are you doing here?" the man said.

"We were just playing Zombies—"

"Be quiet." He held his hand up to Donovan's voice, eyes still perfectly trained on the 25-year-old. "Go to your room, Donnie."

"But he wasn't even—"

"I'm not repeating myself."

Disappointedly, Harry watched his brother obey, walking off up the stairs with his mother just behind him once setting the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Harry bowed his head, shoving his hands into his pockets and the toe of his shoe into the rug.

The men waited there until the sound of a shutting door signaled them.

"You need to leave," Harry's father said.

"You're not happy to see me?" He wouldn't look up; didn't want to anger the man with the way he stared. "You don't want to know how I am?"

"I know how you are. You're not well, son. Not at all."

"Whatever," Harry mumbled.

"You're not supposed to be here. I thought I made that clear."

Harry rolled his head back, sighing with such distressed. "Why can't you just let it go?" The time on the grandfather clock struck ten, the gross chime shooting throughout the house and all of its ears. "It was ages ago. I said I was sorry. What do you want?"

"I forgive you. You know I do. But that doesn't change what happened."

"So what?" The boy looked his dad straight in the eyes, anger vividly rising in his complexion. "You're still pissed at me for something that happened two years ago, so you tell my brother he's not allowed to see me anymore? Don't you know how fucked up that is? You don't know what he wants, as I'm sure you haven't asked him."

"Don't try to guilt trip me!" his father shouted. " _You're_  the one who doesn't know what fucked up is! You've acted like a fucking mental case since the day you were born, so how am I supposed to trust you?!"

If he were just like anyone else, outrage would have started boiling inside him, burning his entire body like straw, his heart hammering out of control and ramming over and over again into his ribcage. But Harry wasn't like everyone else. He only stood there and added those words to the list of things his father had said to him which were uncalled for. With it going this way - with this elder man throwing uncreative insults - Harry decided to join in.

"You can't just do whatever the bloody hell you please and expect me to welcome you with open arms!" the man continued. "You're unstable! I don't want you round my kid!"

Harry couldn't stop himself from laughing. "Oh, fuck off!"

"Look—"

"No, you listen to me. You don't care about Donovan the way you claim you do. You leave him locked up in this fucking house all day like a goddamn dog."

"Oh, and you suddenly sympathise with other people now, is that it?"

"No," the younger man said as if his father was idiotic. "You can go to hell in a hand basket for all I care, but my relationship with my brother is my business and has got nothing to do with you. He doesn't know about what happened and he doesn't need to know. If you keep him from me, you'll have to tell him why, and if you tell him, it won't do anything but hurt him. It serves no good purpose. I would never hurt him and you know it."

"I don't trust you with him! How many times do I have to say it?! You stabbed a little girl in the face! Believe me, Donovan won't be anywhere near you when you decide to pull some crazy shit like that again!"

"She wasn't a little girl," Harry said, and rolled his eyes at that half-truth. "She was my age, if not older. And she's fine now, you can't even tell."

"Son." The man approached Harry eagerly (so eagerly that Harry took a step back) and took his child's face in his shaking hands, peeking into his soul past his merciless green eyes. "Normal people don't do that," he hissed, determined to get through to him this once out of a lifetime of failed attempts. "A normal person doesn't justify hurting the innocent. You don't have empathy— Bleeding hell, you don't even know what that is! I love you with all my heart, you know I do, but you stay away from my family, mate. I'm done warning you. Do you understand?"

He'd been looking into Harry's marvelous green eyes in search of something. Whatever it was he searched for, it wasn't present. In that boy's beautiful emerald eyes were pupils, irises, veins, multiple substances, colour and wasted tears. In his tears was water, salt and frustration. In his frustration was pure rage that yet toppled over - only trickled off the edges. And on the edge of Harry's rage was nowhere anyone wanted to be. Sentimentality, happiness, pain, was all unheard of in the mind that Harry's eyes might have made one hope otherwise. To everyone who knew him - truly knew him - he was plainly and simply emotionless.

"Take your hands off me," Harry whispered, "or I'll break your fucking fingers."

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

_**elephant in the room** _

 

I saw Gemma today. I went to hers to play Black Ops, which she's quite good at. I can really only win by smacking her controller across the room or covering her eyes because I actually suck dick at video games, as it goes. I'm not that into it, so my hand-eye coordination is pretty shit.

On another note, I'll just announce the elephant in the room. Some of you are getting quite annoyed at me because my posts aren't "deep" or "meaningful". I don't know how to make myself any more clear than I have been, but I'll try:

1\. LOOOOL

2\. Depth and meaning are extremely subjective things. What is "deep" and "meaningful" to you will not translate the same way to me or anyone else for that matter, so you sound nothing short of an idiot

3\. You're a faggot

sat. 19/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_when i lost my virginity! FAQ (2)_**

 

 

Q1: Who is Levi?

A: A guy I met at the shops

 

Q2: What's the better sex position?

A: Thought you could fool me by rewording this question, didn't you, snake? I don't have a favourite sex position so fuck you.

 

Q3: Do you prefer older or younger sexual partners?

A: It doesn't quite matter to me

 

Q4: How old were you when you lost your virginity?

A: Teenaged

 

Q5: Do you cry during sex?

A: I'm not sure if this is asking if I cry out of pleasure or overstimulation. I don't cry during sex in general, but I did almost cry once when I was a teenager. He was too aggressive and rough, and I was still somewhat new to sex, so I think you can see what happened there. 

 

Q6:  What BDSM tool do you use most?

A: Hands

 

Q7: Would you hook up with a trans person?

A: Already have

 

Q8: Have you ever had an orgy?

A: Yes

 

Q9: What's your racial preference?

A: So many Hitlers on here

 

Q10: What's your weirdest fetish?

A: I don't have any

sat. 19/5/2015

 

"He's a nuisance. He's got no idea what he's doing, what he's talking about half the time... He just... stands in the way between Donnie and I. Poison would be the way to go."

"Harry—"

He turned to his therapist sharply. "I'm not serious," he demanded. "But if I was, I wouldn't slash his face like I did with that fucking whore at Sea World and let someone else handle him later. It would be too messy. Unlike most people, I learn from my mistakes and don't repeat them. Sea World would have been a good place to do it, though. Or something."

"This can't happen again."

"Yeah, no shit. I'm internationally ban from there."

"That's not what I meant." Doctor Miller stood up to speak to Harry directly, joining him at the corner of the room. "If you tell me you're going to harm your dad, or anyone including yourself for that matter, I'm going to have to—"

"I haven't," the boy claimed. "I said 'if'. Hypothetical."

"But  _if_  you do—"

"I know. I'm not stupid."

Doctor Miller looked at him a while longer to make certain that Harry was fully aware of the circumstantial confidentiality between them, then raised his hands in surrender of his intimidation and unnerved emotion. He sat back at his grey armchair and clicked his pen ready. "So your dad threatened to call the police on you?" he began. "Tell me how that made you feel."

Harry thought about it. "I was pissed off," he admitted. "I threatened him."

"Why?"

"Besides how he's keeping me from my brother?" He rejoined his therapist at the couch which matched the chair. "He spoke to me like a child, put his hands on my face in a way I didn't like. Overall, he was condescending."

"Of course." The doctor scribbled something down. "You were angry. That's understandable."

"And I was disappointed."

His head shot up like a mole from the ground. "Disappointed? Why?"

"Donnie can be a twat sometimes," Harry mumbled, picking at the dirt under his fingernails. "He won't want to see me anymore if my dad tells him that I stabbed someone. That is if he hasn't already told him."

"If Donnie found out and didn't want to see you anymore, why would that make him a twat?"

"It had nothing to do with him. He shouldn't be bothered by it. Of course, I understand why he would be, but still. It was out of self-protection, so if he doesn't understand, then that would make him a twat."

"Okay. And being able to see your brother; does that make you regret what you did? If it meant you could see Donnie, would you take it back?"

Harry shrugged, scrunching his nose up at all of the questions. "Regret it?" He bit his lips. "No. But if I had known I wasn't going to see him again, I don't think I would have done it."

"Why not? Didn't you want to hurt her?"

"Yeah. I mean, she was fucking gross. She threw herself at me and touched my dick, like, twice."

Subsequently, Doctor Miller crossed his legs and scooted back. "I'm going to put you in a couple scenarios and I want you to respond as realistically and unadulterated as possible."

"Yeah."

"So you're at the cinema and you see someone by the till who's very beautiful and you feel immediately drawn to them. I want you to picture someone in your head." The man paused to give him a chance to do so. "As you look at this person for a minute, you realise that they're not noticing you like you notice them. What are you going to do?"

"Chat to him."

"What will you say?"

"I'd... I don't know."

"You do know. Come on."

The boy rubbed his chest, stalling. "I would probably use chat-up lines."

"Like what?" Doctor Miller said with a soft, fond smile.

"Wait, I change my mind..."

"Harry, be honest."

"Yeah, I would ask what film they're seeing. I wouldn't use chat-up lines."

The man sighed. "Okay. So you've asked what film they're seeing and made it clear, subtly, that you fancy them, but they tell you they're not interested. Even if you're persistent and polite, they just don't feel the same. What are you doing now?"

Harry didn't say anything. He merely shrugged.

"How do you feel now?"

"It's whatever."

"Are you going to keep chatting to him?"

"Why would I?" He was offended - more defensive than necessary.

"All right. Let's flip it round. Now someone else comes into the cinema and sees you there and they find you attractive. They do what you said you would do if you fancied someone. The person is coming up to you, being very friendly, and asks you what film you're seeing. How do you react?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"If I'm also attracted to them."

Doctor Miller chuckled and nodded, causing Harry to genuinely smile along. "Yeah, let's say you are. More than the last boy."

"Um..." Harry tried. "I'd convince them to go somewhere else with me."

"Where are you going?"

"Mine."

Flicking to a new page in his notebook, his therapist started to write. "Why?" he said.

"'Why?'" Harry found it entertaining, pitiful even, that he had to explain further, yet was glad that he'd been encouraged to discuss it whether the intention was there or not. "To fuck," he disclosed as if it should have been obvious, and it was.

"What if they don't want that?"

Harry frowned. He glanced at the wall and then at the clock, watching the man's serious, somewhat provoking, face from the corner of his eye. "What do you mean?"

"She doesn't want to have sex with you."

"And she went to mine?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, and then I fuck her."

"No, Harry!"

The boy glared.

"She's telling you she doesn't want to."

He was annoyed. His brain had him thinking one thing and his therapist had him thinking the opposite. He could not comprehend the situation even as Doctor Miller put it in such simple words. She doesn't want to have sex with you, he said. It seemed like the biggest contradiction - as though the man was trying to trick him into saying something he shouldn't. He'd caught onto this theory he accumulated whilst sitting there with his hands in his hair, gently combing the knots.

"What are you going to do now?"

He didn't want to answer.

"If you're not having sex with her, what are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Are you sure? Because she's quite beautiful and it seems she really likes you."

Harry groaned of a headache, raking through the roots of his overgrown fringe. "Right," he sighed. "Now would be the time to quit fucking with me."

"It's just a simple question. Nobody is ever going to hear about this." The man was as patient with him as he would with a child. "She says she's not having sex with you and you do what?"

"Fuck somebody else."

"And if you go back to the cinema to pull someone else, what do you do when someone who you don't like tries to hit on you? You really don't want to be anywhere near this person because they act the way the girl at Sea World did."

The boy stood up immediately, setting out to the exit that was locked for good reason. Harry wiggled the handle and leaned exhaustedly against the door when it wouldn't open. "I'm not answering anymore questions. Let me out."

"There's twenty minutes left—"

"Do you think I give a fuck?! Fuck you, let me out!"

"You don't have to answer then. We'll talk about whatever you want."

"I need to leave. I'm behind on work."

Doctor Miller knew he was lying. There was no apparent look on his patient's face that said so, but Harry was indeed being dishonest. He was permitted to leave and do the work that he did not have.

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**  

_**suicide** _

 

Someone asked me about suicide. _Is it a solution?_  It is definitely a solution, but the real question is: is suicide a good solution? And the answer to that is relative. Really, it's a matter of who you are, what you've done and how people think of you. For example, if you're an incestuous child molester, society will tell you that you probably should have killed yourself a long time ago. But if you're just someone struggling with depression, then you probably shouldn't, because odds are that people like you and will miss you. If you're thinking about committing suicide, take a second to reflect on what you've done. Personally, I think suicide is fucking retarded, to be quite honest with you... But I'm not the sort to be telling anyone about that. If you want to commit, commit yourself to a mental hospital.

mon. 20/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**  

**_my social media & "the orgy"! Q&A (4)_ **

 

Q1: Talk about the infamous orgy. Was there jealousy? Were you satisfied and did you satisfy your partners? Who fucked who? Living room or bedroom? Submissive or dominant? BDSM???

A: It was between my girl at the time, her friend, and this guy I met at a football game. So me and this guy, who I'll call Tyler, got to chatting, and since my girlfriend and I had a polyamorous relationship, I thought it a good idea to suggest that I was interested in him. It was, obviously, but my partner didn't like the fact that we would be bringing in this particular man. She thought she would be left out. So then here comes my girl's bitch. She is extremely obnoxious, but I agreed to bring her along because I wanted to have Tyler with us and this compromise was the easiest way to achieve that. Luckily, this girl wasn't as annoying in bed as she was daily. She was very tolerable. During the actual sex, there wasn't any jealousy, but there was definitely greed. Yet instead of becoming World War 80, it was one of the best sexual experiences I've had and was passionate (or at least my girlfriend thought so) and quite loud. Overall, yes, I was very satisfied. The girls came about 50,000 times and I came last, so I would think everyone enjoyed it just as much as I did, if not more.

Rapid fire: I got some from each of them a few times, hotel room, I wasn't "the dominant one" but I did control what happened, and Tyler was quite masochistic, so everyone had their go at him.

 

Q2: have u ever considered turning ur blog into a podcast ? it might be easier to talk about shit :/: idk

A: That's what therapy's for

 

Q3: BIG OR SMALL TITS

A: TIDDIES

 

Q4: How is Gemma? :D

A: I don't know

 

Q5: What's your favorite movie of all time? And I know you don't care but ily :)))

A: Of all time? The one where you stop asking me what my favourite shit is.

 

Q6: you english or ?????

A: Hey fuck you

 

Q7: favorite clothing store

A: I mostly shop at Zara, so I guess Zara. For the love of god, please no more of these questions!!

 

Q8: Do you actively support LGBTQIA+ ?

A: I have no problem with them as a community, but the LGBT activists I've met irl are a bunch of faggots that don't know how or when to fuck off.

 

Q9: pups or kikis

A: They're both okay. Cats are generally softer though.

 

Q10: What are your social media accs?

A: twitter: @fuckingkysdumbarse

instagram: @holyshiturdumbashell

tumblr: @whywouldigiveumypersonalinfo

facebook: Die Cunt

 

Q11: Any (sexual) guilty pleasures?

A: Guilt?

 

Q12: what's one thing u wanna do before u die

A: I had to think about this.

I'm assuming you meant to ask if there was one thing that I want to do that will make me feel fulfilled and ready to die if I do this exact thing. If you did mean to ask this, then there isn't anything I want to do. If you don't get to do something special before you're dead, boo fucking hoo, you're already dead and no one gives a flying fuck.

 

Q13: Have you ever self harmed? :/

A: No

 

Q14: PLS PLS CAN U SAY HBD TO MY FRIEND BRIAN IN LOS ANGELES HE JUST TURNED 21!! HES IN LUV W U!

A: Happy birthday, Brain

 

Q15: yoooo charlie u do drugs ?????

A: Yes

 

Q16: Dick pic ?

A: Blocked

 

Q17: u said u have a job so what do u do?

A: I'm a bartender

 

Q18: Have you seen Levi recently?

A: Yes

 

Q19: what kind of car do you drive?

A: Toyota Camry

 

Q20: What places would you like to travel if you could go anywhere and why?

A: They say everything is bigger in Texas

wed. 22/5/2015

 

Harry's hand held onto Louis' as they took the pavement through the shops. They shared earbuds off Harry's newly repaired phone, listening to his music with the sun shining brightly on their skin, both boys walking bare chested as they'd just returned from swimming, and the temperature out did feel lovely. There was no plan to publicly venture Cheshire half-naked, but Louis' shirt had ended up in the pool and was too wet to wear, so Harry made the chivalrous decision to go without his shirt, as well.

"What's this song?" Louis reached for Harry's pocket, but was beaten to the chase.

" _Sherry_ ," the elder lad said, pulling his hand out of Louis' grasp to properly look at his phone. "It's by The Four Seasons. Frankie Valli was in that band."

"Oh, yeah, he did that song at the start of  _Grease_. Is he your favourite singer?"

"Definitely."

Louis smiled at him, adoring the cuteness about him, and hugged his waist as he kissed his arm. And due to this natural gesture of Louis', Harry put his arm round his shoulders, as he was indeed Harry's boy and they both knew it.

Whilst chatting about Harry's being vegan and some strange things they used to do when they were young, someone walked by.

Harry glanced over carefully, watching a boy go past with his head down. Harry looked at the top of his deep, black hair, his caramel skin underneath his sleeveless shirt, his legs in a pair of loose jeans that hardly fit him, yet looked as suitable as anything else. Harry gradually turned his head with every step the boy took the opposite way. He'd spotted the young lad just minutes before by a soft pretzel stand, had not said a word of mouth or body, but recognised him like the back of his hand. This boy with black hair hadn't noticed Harry first crossing paths with him, as he was just as preoccupied by his cellphone as Harry was, though upon the second encounter, they'd both looked away from their phone screens long enough to make eye contact. Because Harry had been silently staring for quite some time, the boy somehow felt someone else's sight on him. So he lifted his head the very moment he and Harry shared the same space, their arms barely brushing, and smiled the most sensual smile Harry had ever seen on a person of that age.

Harry had to look over his shoulder to find satisfaction in gawking at him. And when he did, the boy did, too, waving his little fingers at him and fixing his thick glasses on his nose. So Harry ran his eyes up and down the kid's body for a while longer until turning back, mindlessly ignoring the offense that Louis had taken to witnessing his date flirt with someone else, let alone an underage schoolboy.

Outside of Louis' parents' house, he stepped out of Harry's Corolla and slammed the door. "Seriously, fuck off."

"You're overreacting!" Harry professed, following the other outside. "What, I'm not allowed to look at anyone?"

"You fucking looked at a kid! No, it wasn't even just a look, all right? You fucking..." Louis was getting frantic and unnerved. "You looked at him like how my mates look at my sister! That's fucked up!"

"What is? Your friends wanting to fuck your sister or me looking at someone walk by?"

He made a face of disgust, rolling his eyes, and started heading towards the front door. "Honestly," he mumbled, diving into his pocket for his keys. "You're so fucking mad!"

"Come on!" Harry laughed. He opened up the boot of his car and retrieved two t-shirts. "Don't pretend like you didn't already know."

"I'm not pretending." Louis stopped, flicking his fringe aside before glaring. "I did know. You told me you're bipolar, and I don't really care about that, to be honest, but you did fail to mention that you fancy wee kids."

"There's a huge difference between looking at a kid and wanting to fuck one."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

His chest should have hurt slightly, his brain recognising the feeling of heartbreak which would send signals to the body, but his brain could not perform such tricks. "You think you know everything about me, but you don't," he plainly stated. "You've got no idea. You aren't entitled to a single opinion about me when we just met two weeks ago."

"Your logic is fucked if that's what you think."

"Sweetheart, if you think  _this_  is fucked, then I don't know what to tell you. But I swear, what happened today wasn't what you think."

"So what the hell was it?"

Harry fixed the shirts in his hands, one being wet and sticky with chlorine and the other slightly wrinkled, and approached Louis at the centre of the pathway. "You've been to mine, you've seen my drugs," he stated, pulling his shirt over his head. "That kid I looked at— I sell him weed."

Louis frowned. "You sell him weed?"

"I smoked with him when we first met, but that's it. It's just something you do. I didn't look at him for any other reason."

"I don't believe you."

"Okay," Harry snidely chuckled. He handed Louis his wet shirt, letting the boy snatch it right out of his hand. "I like you, Louis. You're the only one who hasn't run away from my shitty mental health."

"Well, yeah, I told you I don't care about that stuff."

"Thanks."

"But I still... I don't like the way you looked at each other." Louis dropped his gaze, fiddling with the tags on his shirt collar, his lip drawn between his teeth. "I don't know what to think. It just... It isn't right."

Harry took in a large breath along with his date's emotions, understanding the way he felt with extreme professionalism, and reworked those emotions into a situation he could relate to. Had he caught Louis looking at someone else, he would have shoved that person's face into a wall. Yet, and though his intake of Louis' sadness was perfectly acceptable, he still would not and could not feel for him. "I know." But Harry didn't know. "I'm sorry," he lied.

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_fake accounts & misinformation_ **

 

I haven't been on much this week, so I apologise for that. I'm about to go out with a mate, so I've got to be quick. There are some rumours going on about me and I just want to clear it all up.

These instagram accounts aren't mine:

@CharlieChamberlain

@CharlesChamberlain

@charliexchamber

@chxrliechxmber

@antisocialchamber

Those are the main accounts I'm seeing, but just assume that all accounts claiming to be me are fake.

Someone messaged me asking if I live in Liverpool because a fake account said so. I don't live in Liverpool. And, no, I don't drive a white Lexus. And for everyone wondering about Levi's information, I'm not giving it out so suck my dick.

**Edit:**  One of you felt the need to spread the word that I'm mean. I don't really care what you say about me, but you said I'm mean because I have ASPD and that's not true. I'm mean because it's my sense of humour and I think calling someone "faggot" is funny. It has got nothing to do with wanting to hurt anyone's feelings or feeling superior to anyone. It's not sadism either (I talked about that in a previous post), so don't spread misinformation. If anyone is hurt by what I say, I don't know what to tell you. I don't know you or anything about you, so how could I possibly know how to insult you? How am I to know what sets you off? We don't know each other, I'm not angry at any of you, so don't take anything I say personally. I'm not trying to offend you.

fri. 24/5/2015

 

The music was so loud, Harry could feel his hair vibrating. His knees clanked in their sockets, his skin quaking on his bones all while he kept his beer from slipping through his fingers. But he was intoxicated far beyond rescue. He could hardly make out anything ten feet in front of his face, let alone the objects close enough to graze his nose. He explored the house swaying left and right, unable to properly walk himself for five second without leaning against someone for support. He had thrown up on his eighth shot and second bottle of lager, had dropped three pieces from the handful of crisps he'd been caught carrying round every now and then, and got his naval pierced. Three hours into the revelry, his kidney still managed to filter his alcohol as expertly as ever.

He waddled over to the couch, stepping on a woman's foot on the way, and plopped down in the middle of a group of friends.

"You all right?"

"Yeah," Harry murmured. "I, uh..." He rubbed his eye. "Smoke. I'm gonna smoke."

"With who?"

"You. C'mon."

The boy he was chatting with laughed. "I haven't got any bud for you, mate."

"No shit." Harry stood up very unskillfully, setting his drink to the table to grab the lad's hand and pull him to his feet. "Let's go. Upstairs."

"Fine. But you try some of that weird shit you do, I'm outta there."

There was that smile that the world loved so much - put on because he adored the boy's lisp. "'Weird shit?'"

"You're a goddamn biter." He pointed at Harry's beautiful, drunk face, warning in his eyes. "No biting. I mean it."

After just a moment of exchanging looks, the two headed off to a secluded bedroom of three girls who left once Harry asked them to (and after dealing edibles to one), and lit a joint just for himself and a certain lad with black hair and tan skin.

"So how'd you know I'd be here?" the boy said, drawing in the biggest huff of smoke before blowing it off sideways. "You stalk me or somethin'?"

"Definitely." Harry stole the joint and had a puff himself. "I came with my mate Zayn. You know him, yeah?"

"I went to his birthday party, but only 'cause his sister invited me."

"You were there?"

The kid made a face, kicking off his filthy Chucks. "Were you?"

"Yeah." Harry couldn't help his laughter. "I think I saw you in a Snapchat story."

"You haven't got a Snapchat."

"I know, but I still saw you in one. Anyway, I knew you were coming, but I would've gone regardless."

"Sure."

"It's true. Not everything revolves round you."

"Is that right?"

He watched the boy dress his mouth with a sillily charming grin, a sort of smile which reminded him of Louis, feeling somewhat elated of the body. Harry sat lazily on the carpet as he permitted the kid to gently remove the blunt from his lips, crawling into his lap and slinging his arms round his neck. They admired each other through their red, misjudging eyes whilst Harry let go of the smoke in his mouth so that the boy might inhale it; and he did. Harry simply sat there motionless as this boy leaned in to kiss him, grinding down against his lap, working himself up to eventually becoming a high-pitched, moaning mess. And after a minute or so, Harry had had enough.

He plucked back the joint and squashed it out on the side of the bedpost, tucked his hair behind his ears, and unbuttoned the kid's jeans. "Take your shirt off," Harry said, the boy already halfway out of his top.

As soon as his trousers were splayed on the floor, the kid helped Harry to the bed, him being almost too influenced to function, and laid him down there. "Are you hard for me?"

"Shit..." Harry moved spastically for a second. "I still wanted to smoke."

"Here, I've got something better."

"Wh... Where's my phone?"

"Open."

He groaned, but obliged, letting his tongue get treated by the other's as they shared pills, though Harry wouldn't swallow. He sought out something to drink in that dark room on account of his dry throat, choosing to grab the glass off the nightstand and scoop up some water from the fish tank to the other side of him. He checked if he'd captured a fish - which he did not - but had swallowed something alien regardless.

He breathed slowly and closed his eyes. "I ate contacts."

"Oh, no," the boy laughed. "But you also drank fish water, so no more snogging."

"Fine."

"Are you hard yet?"

Harry shook his head.

Without needing permission, the kid kissed Harry's neck, letting his fingers up his sweatshirt and circling his bum against his crotch. The bass off the speakers downstairs was just as heavy upstairs, if not heavier, which caused the man to feel ill. Everything was moving very slowly; even the bed that shifted each way with the music, upsetting his stomach indefinitely. He had the tiniest bit of self-control left in his system that could keep him from throwing up again, making up in sexuality for what his body lacked in soberness - eventually.

The boy unbuttoned Harry's jeans, pulling them down just enough to free his manhood and grin at the fact that he wasn't wearing pants. And before Harry could really comprehend what was happening to him, he could feel a mouth on his dick. He was distracted by the patterns put on the walls and ceiling from the red and gold lava lamps and the fluorescence in the fish tank. The bedroom air was barely littered with a haze, which they both continuously inhaled and simultaneously grew even higher off of, never minding the pills that were bound to kick in at any moment.

But as Harry thought about it, petting the boy's hair back whilst not looking directly at him, he considered that he might have already been too high to feel the effect of the unidentified pill, but he knew he was wrong. Harry usually thought unrealistically when intoxicated, as was expected, and was inevitably going to feel  _something_  once the drug hit him. And when it did, suddenly he didn't want to lay down anymore.

He shooed the boy away. "Lay back," Harry said, ripping his jumper over his head.

"I've missed you, you know? Just sending pictures gets to be kinda stale."

"I know."

"But I'm glad you came. I really hoped you would. Not just 'cause I knew you would fuck me if we went to the same party, but because it's nice to chat to you and be round you and kinda just admire what you're like." He continued to babbled as Harry got undressed. "My mates ask about you all the time— and don't worry, I don't tell anyone about anything— but I like that they wonder. It means they're jealous. Probably. I dunno... Idealistically—"

"You chat a lot."

He fixed his glasses on the bridge of his nose as Harry joined him on the bed. "It's the ecstasy," the young lad admitted, laying down as he was told. "Do you want me to stop?"

Harry sighed looking into the kid's blown eyes, listening to him pant like he'd ran twice round the house, and licked his lips. "I don't mind," Harry said, hovering over him. "Just don't try to make conversation with me."

"Sure."

"'Thure.'"

The boy looked at him sideways. "You making fun of my lisp?"

"Yes," Harry admitted. "But I fancy it."

"Do you now?"

"Yeah, now shut up."

They weren't quick. Harry stayed in the bedroom with that 15-year-old, greedy hands all over his small, precious body, feeling him and kissing him over and over again like he owned his existence. And for the time being, he did. Harry owned his wrecked, passive voice, his tears, his shaking legs and scratching fingers, his sweat, exhaustion, pleasure. He controlled everything. He was in charge of what happened and what didn't happen, and if for any reason he sensed the meekest source of dominance radiating off the younger boy, he'd force the kid down or make him shape some other submissive position. However it might have appeared, their sex wasn't dangerous. Harry was never one to endanger his sexual partners - of course, unless need be.

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_my appearance! Q &A (5)_ **

 

1\. seriously what do you look like?

A: Blackish hair and brown eyes

 

2\. Have you got any piercings or tattoos?

A: No

 

3\. Would you date yourself :)

A: Absolutely not

tues. 28/5/2015

 

He enjoyed watching TV with Louis. He felt comforted having someone lay so close to him on a couch with blankets and pillows surrounding them, having bow tie pasta and mint lemonade. Their feet were invasive of each other's space, Harry's jammed beneath Louis' bum and Louis' on Harry's stomach.  _Primal Fear_ was on Hulu, an old Edward Norton film that Harry used to watch with his parents when he was a child, and there were a few candles on. If Harry didn't know any better, he would have thought that this atmosphere was romantic, but he did not have the capacity to fathom romance, so he didn't think it romantic. He saw himself laying there, as if he could float above where he lay on the couch with a bowl of pasta on his chest, looking at himself look at the TV, and he saw nothing but boredom in his face, even if he did enjoy the film and the food and the lemonade and the feeling of Louis' bum on his bare feet. Halfway through their date, Harry couldn't help but pick up his cellphone and start writing a college application essay for a 17-year-old choir student in Georgia.

"Babe," Louis said, tickling the boy's stomach with his toe.

"Mm."

"You tired?"

Harry meant to shake his head, but he made no reply.

"Dude."

"What?"

"Did you hear me?"

This time, Harry did shake his head. "I'm working."

"On what?"

"Work."

Just then, Louis removed his legs from the man's torso, sitting up and leaving Harry's feet cold and exposed. "Okay, Twat McGee," Louis said, grabbing both of their bowls. "Can I throw this out?"

"No." Harry held out his hand, refraining from giving his boy the bored glare that was already etched into his features.

Louis didn't respond for a long, long time. He stood at the side of the couch, simply pondering, as it seemed. He rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen, dumping the pasta into the rubbish louder than necessary, banging the dishes against the bin and dropping them in the water-filled sink. Afterward, he came back into the living room, took the glass of lemonade out of Harry's hand as he prepared to drink it, and went back to pour it down the drain.

"I hadn't finished—"

"Get out."

Harry looked back into the kitchen. "Seriously?"

"Yes, I'm serious," Louis told him, reentering to snatch the blankets up. "Get the fuck out."

"No. Come on, let's watch the movie."

"Harry..."

The boy put up the cutest pleading face; pouted lip and all. "I'm sorry," he hummed softly, ignoring Louis' warning. "I'm just having a bad day. I didn't mean to upset you."

Petting the lad's inner thigh, running his thumb in circles along the skin beneath Louis' shorts, he smiled intelligently. He smiled with purpose, with ambition to get what he wanted, and what he wanted was to remain in Louis' life for as long as possible.

The 19-year-old cocked his head in thought before drawing all the oxygen he could. "Get your arse off my fucking sofa, shit head!"

"Don't overreact," Harry said as he sat up.

Louis threw the blankets down at their feet and groaned. "God, fuck off! You're such a bloody child!"

"I'm not the one who's yelling."

"Just get out."

"I said I was sorry," the elder one restated, standing to directly argue. "What, do you want me to get down on my knees?"

"I want you to leave!"

"Why?"

"Because you stress me out! I don't need a selfish little prick alongside everything else in my shitty life I already have to take care of!"

"Oh!" Harry derisively gasped. "You take care of me! Fuck, I just... I had no idea. I mean, you should have said. Clearly  _you_  take of  _me_. I don't know why I thought..."

"Stop being a baby." Louis sent a hurried, bothered gesture toward the front door. "Get out."

"Sure." Though he settled, he decided to keep at his snide. "I've gotta piss first."

"Sure," Louis said just as snidely.

As Harry went to the toilet, he figured that he could have expressed his urgency for Louis' approval of him better, but he was never very good at expressing himself, especially when it came to his "loved ones". Louis was, in fact, one of the more interesting people in his life among few, but that shouldn't suggest that Harry loved him. Harry loved Louis' face, and he loved the things he said and the things he liked to do. Harry loved the boy's attentiveness, the way he looked at those who spoke to him, his body that drew eyes like magnets. Having said such mean things to him, Harry was unsure of how to reinvent the natural bond they shared after snapping it in half.

Harry didn't need to use the toilet. The mint lemonade had yet left his digestive track, and the pasta was definitely still sitting dead in his stomach. He'd asked to use the toilet because he wanted more time to go over his options. Should he apologise for what he'd said and kiss Louis as passionately as he could, or should he continue the fight and make up for his immaturity with hard, restless sex? Both options seemed appealing - one more than the other - as well as unlikely. Harry had apologised far too many times for another one of his pathetic sorries to contain any compassion whatsoever. No matter how he could beg and plead, his words were empty space - only noise. He didn't care that he hurt Louis. He didn't care that he treated Louis like a maid. He didn't care that Louis was battling a deep depression about his mother's cancer nor his struggle to tend to his younger siblings when need be. Harry didn't care that Louis put off a year of university for his family and gave every pound he had to them. But Harry wanted him.

He watched himself in the mirror for a while. He watched himself the way that he did when he'd get upset whilst living with his mother and her many boyfriends. He examined each bit of his face like how used to whenever he'd get in trouble for behaving erratically - conniving - and discovered the facial anger he'd been carrying for the past several days. The image of his father standing too close to him, the feel of  _his_  hands on  _his_  flesh,  _his_  lungs stealing the air that  _he_  breathed as he told Harry what was right and what was wrong all made him sick. Harry knew the difference between right and wrong - he'd been living long enough to find out for himself. He just didn't worry about the differences. He did what he liked, for he figured the outcome didn't matter as long as it didn't negatively impact him. If all outcomes favoured him, they were good, with no doubt.

A horrendous amount of cogitations were playing in his brain, jumping about and shouting at him. He felt one way, wished to feel another, but knew he should feel something else. There was a word for it, he knew, yet as he reached for his phone to define the sensation, he suddenly stopped breathing.

Harry couldn't have opened the door faster. He went down the corridor, round the kitchen, nearly tripped over the end of the rug, and came to a sharp standstill once finding Louis in the living room.

He was holding Harry's phone, covering his mouth with his quivering hand as he stared at the screen in tears.

For someone without fear, it was uncommon that Harry dreaded what someone might say.

But Louis ran his stressed fingers through his hair, exposing his heartbroken face, and said, "Who's Levi?"

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

_**update thing** _

 

My guy found out about Levi because I forgot to grab my phone when I went to the toilet and he saw an explicit photo Levi texted me whilst I was in there. He was already mad at me for being an arse, so you could imagine how much angrier that made him. He doesn't want to see me anymore which is sort of fucked. Despite me cheating on him, we get on well. He is one of the more understanding people I've met and it is unfortunate that he wants nothing else to do with me. I predict that I'll be very bored now that I won't be hanging out with him for a while, considering the fact that I'm already not seeing my sister at the moment and my friend has left to visit family. I could always go see my mother, but that would mean seeing my extended family and I really don't fancy them. I don't mind spending time with Levi, but I can't imagine trying to get our schedules to work. I don't think I want to do that anyway. I've texted my mate a couple hours ago and asked them what I should do to get my guy back and they said I don't deserve a second chance because I cheated. I understand the reasoning, but I hadn't been with my guy for that long so I would hardly call him my boyfriend. He overreacts about a lot of things, and I'm not saying it's his fault I hooked up with other people, but sex is just something I need in a relationship like that. We have only ever gone as far as a blowjob. He never wants to do anything but kiss, so it makes sense to me to satisfy myself. I didn't plan on him finding out. I don't blame him for what I did, but in my case, I saw no other solution. As soon as he'd allow us a sexually active relationship, I would have dropped everyone else with a blink of an eye, no hesitation. He is that attractive to me. But he said he hates me and never wants to see me again and I'm positive he blocked my number, so I can't ring him to apologise. I'll most likely drive up to apologise in person if he continues to duck my calls.

wed. 29/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_my boyfriend! Q &A (6)_ **

 

Q1: YOU CHEATED ON YOUR BOYFRIEND WITH MULTIPLE PEOPLE AND YOU WANT A SECOND CHANCE LMAOOO WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU ARE YOU FUCKING MENTAL??????

A: Yeah?

 

Q2: wait Levi's a side hoe??? so who's your bf? fuck i'm so confused

A: I haven't disclosed who my guy is and never will

 

Q3: How many ppl did you fuck around with?

A: Four probably

 

Q4: what std u got !!!!!!!!?

A: Ask your mum

 

Q5: Are you like a sex addict or something?

A: It's called a satyr/nymphomaniac, and no

 

Q6: why the FUCK would anyone date you're insane ass you don't care about anyone but yourself you're gonna grow up to be a crazy ass serial killer holy shit dude where's your mother honestly you need to be taught how to go about life your gonna ruin you're life and the life of everyone you meet commit yourself to asylum jesus christ

A: Maybe you should go to school before you tell anyone anything. I swear, I had to read that three fucking times.

 

Q7: Did/does Levi know about your boyfriend, and does he know that your boyfriend knows about him? How does Levi feel about everything?

A: He's known about my guy for a week or so, but he doesn't know what's happened between us. There is no reason for him to know. For me to tell him, it would only stress him out, make him feel bad and who knows what else. It would serve no purpose to anyone.

 

Q8: Have you considered going to another therapist because the one you have seems to not care about what you do on your own time?

A: At the end of the day, we all make our own decisions. Although I have considered it, a different therapist wouldn't change my thought process.

 

Q9: Ok but are you gonna choose Levi or your boyfriend??

A: "Boyfriend"

 

Q10: Can we have an alias for your guy bc honestly this is confusing as shit

A: Your choice

wed. 29/5/2015

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**  

**_my boyfriend's name_ **

 

Here are the first three names that came to my head. Vote on them.

 

1\. Carter

2\. Brandon

3\. Elijah 

wed. 29/5/2015

 

"Tell me about your blog."

Harry crossed his left leg over his right, picking at the faint dirt under his nails as he lay quietly on the couch. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything. Whatever you'd like to say."

He swallowed hard and rubbed his tired, green eyes, mumbling, "A lot of them hate me."

"What makes you think that?" Doctor Miller asked.

"It's true. I mean, I don't really like a lot of them either, but they don't know me."

"You don't know them either."

"Obviously."

The man made a humming sound, wagging his notebook in his hyperactive hand. "So why do you think they hate you?" he repeated.

"Stigma perhaps," Harry sincerely acknowledged, shrugging his shoulder up to his ears. "It doesn't make sense. I tell them everything besides private stuff like my name and about my brother, shit like that. I know they like when I answer questions, so I do a lot of Q&As and FAQs for them so they can learn more about me and feel involved. Like a partnership sort of thing. But they've recently been telling me how horrible I am and that I'm a slut and I've got STDs and stuff."

Doctor Miller nodded knowingly, a form of disapproval in his eyes whilst he flicked open his notepad to a clear page. "Why would they say that, Harry?"

"I cheated on my guy."

"You've got a boyfriend?" He started to write things down. "After I told you it wasn't good for you?"

"We're not really together," the boy sought to clarify. "We've been seeing each other for three weeks and I haven't fucked him, so there's no romance  _or_  sex. I'm not doing anything you told me not to do."

"Still, you decided to get into a relationship."

"As I see it, we're two mates who snog on occasion."

His therapist sighed through his nose. "Tell me about him, whatever you prefer to call him. What do you fancy about him?"

"He's hot." Harry's brutal honesty caused the other the frown. "I wasn't looking to date him when we first met, just to hook up. I'm not into dating much. But I got his number and... Anyway, I don't consider me fucking someone else cheating because we aren't really together and that's why the people on my blog hate me. Because I did that to him."

"Why did you cheat on him?"

"He wouldn't have sex with me. Since that was the only reason I pursued him, you could probably understand where it came from."

"Why do you want sex so much? Other than 'It feels good.' Why is it important to you?"

He didn't need to think very hard. Although the question surprised him and threw him into a sea of incertitude, the answer was just shortly behind and jumping out of his mouth. "It's associated with love." Doctor Miller seemed surprised to hear that. "Because, from what I understand, sex solidifies a bond between two people in a relationship. Obviously not in every case, but in romantic ones, if you make love to your partner then there's nothing left to offer. Essentially. And then afterwards, your partner will give you things that are very sacred to them like their trust, their body, etcetera. If that were to happen with... him and I, he would eventually reward me just the same."

The man stayed quiet in those spoken words. He sat in them, patiently, absorbing all of the ideas that came along with them. "Can I ask you something?" he finally said.

"Yes."

Doctor Miller cleared his throat. "Do you think you need sex in order to feel close to someone?"

"In general?"

"Perhaps. But also personally. You've made it perfectly clear that the only thing you want from your boyfriend is sex. You would be willing to do almost anything to get it, hence your sleeping with someone else when that couldn't be achieved." He allowed Harry to nod. "Did you want to feel close to him? Your boyfriend?"

"No." Harry was quick to take the statement back. "Not in that sense. I don't see how sex would bring two people together."

"So how do you feel about him?"

"I don't love him."

"I didn't ask that."

"It's obvious that you want to." Harry picked himself up off the couch, gliding his fingers across his soft, porcelain cheek. "I don't love him. We get on just like friends, hangout pretty often. But because we have a more... sensual relationship, we expect things from each other. I expect sex whilst he expects an emotional bond. I couldn't give him what he wants if I tried, but he doesn't want to give me what I want. Do you see the difference there?"

"You do feel contentment in relationships though, don't you?" Doctor Miller pried. "What if he actually likes you, Harry? You're not willing to compromise just a little?"

"There was never—"

"What if he acted the way the girl at Sea World had? Would you reject him or jump at the chance?"

The boy became frantic in seconds, drawing his air he bathed in as though it were poisonous. "Don't talk about her," Harry warned as his hands folded together. "And to answer your previous questions before you interrupted me, there was never contentment or even a need for it. I don't want to... try and formulate a connection with someone when it's not essential to me. If I did end up being content with the way things are now, that's all right, but I don't feel that way. I just want to have sex with him. That's it. And if he really is into me, then fine. That should make sex easier."

"Okay." The doctor waited until his patient leveled his breathing and surrendered and took a seat. "I must say this though: for the time being, you shouldn't be sexually active. I think it's safe to say that you're having trouble getting past your experience."

"That sounds like PTSD."

"It's not. I just want to make sure you're aware of what we've discovered today."

"We're not out of time."

Doctor Miller smiled gratefully. "No, we're not," he agreed, however closed his notebook anyway. "Harry, did you know that some people resort to unhealthy sexual activity after being sexually assaulted or raped? It's a form of self-harm."

The boy looked disgusted. "I don't do that."

"I've noticed that your experiences with self-harm and your current sex life don't overlap. Not at all. Why do you think that is?"

"Self-harm is subjective," Harry protested. "And  _you_ , for one, can't tell me that  _I_  self-harm."

"It is self-harm to intentionally hurt yourself, even if you aren't depressed or bipolar or anything like that."

"I wasn't hurting myself. I didn't care. I did it to get what I wanted."

"What you wanted?"

"Yeah, my mum gave me anything I wanted when I'd hurt myself in front of her. Pinching." He took a piece of his flesh on his arm between his fingers and gave slight pressure. "She hates that."

"Right." The man jotted down a short summary on the topic of self-injury as he reopened his notebook, then closed it again. "I remember now. That's why she put you in therapy."

Harry didn't reply.

"So what I wanted to ask is this: do you think there's a reason behind the correlation of the self-harm and your sex life?"

"No," Harry said immediately.

"Do you see a correlation between them at all?"

"No," he said again. "It's just sex."

"Is it?"

"I can fuck whoever I want whenever I want. It doesn't have to be because of anything. I don't know what you think I'm doing or what you think is wrong with me—"

"I don't think anything's wrong with you and, frankly, it doesn't matter what I think. I only care about what you think of yourself and keeping you safe."

Harry looked to his right, putting his chin in his hand whilst he bit his lips.

"What?" said Doctor Miller, leaning in slightly. "Does that upset you?"

"No. What else are we chatting about?"

"Whatever you want."

"I don't want to talk, my head hurts. I have an appointment to get to anyway."

"What appointment?"

"A haircut." Harry left the couch and went to the door, accommodating himself quietly as he waited for the man to unlock it.

His therapist sighed, a fine look of disappointment in his eyes yet just enough tolerance needed, before getting up to let his patient out. "There's a reason you keep coming back here, Harry," Doctor Miller told him expertly. "When clients leave, it's usually because they've solved the problem or they've found someone else who probably works better with them. Sometimes it's just because therapy isn't their thing. You're the only client I've had that's come back so many times, but with all my years working with you, you still don't want to talk to me."

Harry pulled the door open, frowned directly at the man, and left.

The next day after work, Harry drove up to Doncaster. He'd taken the 2-hour drive to Louis' parents' house, the Tomlinson-Deakin residence that he had never entered, to speak to his date, though they hadn't a date planned, about himself and to apologise again for something he wasn't sorry for. Along the drive he contemplated his session with his doctor, rethinking his responses and critisising those responses he wished he could have reworded. Harry wasn't always conscious of his words and actions, and when he was, he had no caution for things he did or said wrong, but in the rare times that he did, it was only for the sake of his sanity. If he was sent back to the mental hospital on his journey of getting better, he'd have lost his mind. Moreover, he'd promised himself that he'd never again do to anyone what he'd done to Frida Velasquez. Recalling what Doctor Miller asked him, wondering what he would have done had Louis treated him the way Frida did, he didn't have an answer. Remembering the incident at all made him want to rip the steering wheel out of his Corolla all whilst the mere thought of Louis gave him such a bubbly feeling in his stomach. The contradiction was somewhat bothersome, but he peddled through it.

When Harry arrived, he parked in the street blocking the motorway and rummaged through the glove box for a small bag of white powder. He opened it up, sprinkled a desirable amount onto the back of his phone and with his ID he made a thin line of it. Cocaine blew up in his system in a matter of seconds. His heart began pounding harder as time went on and because he had no time to waste relishing the feeling, he grabbed the big bouquet of assorted roses and Peruvian lilies from the back. Originally, he was meant to see his mother about her cat's newborn litter, but he had canceled and threw on the most handsome outfit he could put together with his few free minutes and picked up flowers instead. He did want to see the kittens, watch them crawl over each other and whine, but some things seemed more important.

He went up to the front and rang the bell, fixing his shirt collar as he looked into the house through the partially glass door to assure someone was awake. If not, and the entire household had gone to bed by that hour, Harry could have easily thrown rocks at Louis' window from the back where he knew his bedroom was, but that was unnecessary.

"Hi," Harry said, smiling preciously once a teenage girl answered the door. "You're Félicité, right?"

Though slightly awkward, the girl smiled back and nodded. "Hi." She glanced between Harry's dimples and the colourful bouquet. "Are you here for Louis?"

"Yeah, if it's not too late. I just came up from Cheshire, so it was a long drive."

"It's all right, he's awake. He doesn't really sleep." The girl, Félicité, allowed him inside, showing him the couch where he was welcome to sit whilst she went to retrieve her brother.

So Harry sat in the living room beside the little table with a framed photo of two babies on it, on his extreme left side a tall tower of books climbing half the height of the wall. He greatly appreciated the atmosphere of the house, the burning candles and electric wallflowers because it did smell rather nice. Louis' home was much more comfortable than either of Harry's parents', let alone where he'd spent his childhood. The Tomlinson-Deakin residence was perfect for raising a family, unlike the house he grew up in. Raised practically on his lonesome, Harry could have survived more peacefully had he lived in an environment similar to that of Louis' family's. Envisioning such a thought, Harry wasn't certain if any place would have saved him. No matter where his mother chose to bring him up, he thought that his getting locked in a closet for two days at eight years old could not have been avoided.

When Louis came in to see him, Harry stood up with his dashing dimples.

"Honestly, what the fuck?" Louis marched right up to the boy, tying up the drawstrings on his joggers. "It's midnight - what are you doing here?"

Harry simply waved the flowers in his face.

"Okay... And who are those for?"

"Well, I would say they're for you, but I'd be lying." If Harry's smile could have grown any more disingenuous, it had. "They're for your mum."

"She's sleeping. Get out."

"Come on, you can't say no to them. They're Peruvian."

"Harry, I'm serious."

"So am I," Harry said, approaching Louis with heed. "You can have them if you want, but I'd prefer you gave them to your mother. The way you talk about her, I think she'd like them."

The younger lad opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself the very moment a ginger toddler waddled out from a secluded back room, followed closely by another toddler who was not ginger, but blond. The red head - a girl, Harry thought - waited for the little blond boy, grabbing his hand as they wandered away into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to help themselves. By the time that Harry and Louis made eye contact, they both appeared to be extremely uncomfortable.

But Harry threw up his charisma, and before the teenager could stop him, he was going into the kitchen and offering the bouquet to the children. "Hey there, cutie pies," he'd whisper. "Go run this to your mum's room really fast." And the toddlers would giggle and scurry back to where they'd come with their new flowers, leaving the refrigerator wide open.

"Can you leave, please?" Louis said once the kids were gone.

"I wanted to see you."

"Well, I don't wanna see you." He laughed sarcastically. "What made you think I'd want you here? It might've been one thing to show up at my flat at twelve in the morning, but it's a whole other story to just drive all the way out here to my house. My fucking family lives here, mate."

"Your siblings seemed to like me."

"Because they don't know you!" Louis shouted as hushed as he could. "I... I-I just don't want you round me or my family. Ever."

Frowning, Harry cocked his head, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets. "So that's it? You're breaking up with me?"

"Yes! Shit, I don't know what you're telling yourself happened, I mean... All I know is that you're not the guy I thought you were. I'm not gonna say anything else and I won't tell anybody. I'll just say it didn't work out. Nobody will ever hear anything from me."

"Please don't do this," Harry was quick to say. "I'm so sorry, Lou. You mean so much to me..."

The boy tried his hardest to seclude his hurt, his disgust, but was betrayed by his eyes. "I don't want you in my life anymore," Louis told him. "I thought I made that clear. I can't even look at you without wanting to throw up. All I see is the look on your face when you watched him walk by, whoever he was... The picture of you two together. It's not my fault. You fucked up, I'm sorry."

"I won't know what to do without you. You're everything I've ever wanted... Not even just as a boyfriend. You're such a great friend to me."

"Just accept it, Harry. There's nothing you can do or say to—"

"Then I'll kill myself."

The tension that was already present multiplied in a frenzy. It had nearly finished dissolving, grateful to Louis' attempts of concluding their spat, then was anything but reconciled as Harry bit back into it. He bit the topic, ripped off its flesh and severed its head, leaving it all at Louis' feet to look at and feel wholly paralysed.

The boy's lips quivered. "Now that's not funny," he scorned.

"I'll kill myself if you break up with me."

"Dude, stop."

"Is that what you want? You want me to die for you? Is that  _really_  what you want?"

"Harry... I'm serious—"

"Don't break up with me." The elder boy extended his hand for his dearest compliment, scrunching his brows watching Louis cower back. "I shouldn't have done it," Harry began, going by his mental list of things to say. "I'm so sorry, love. I know I fucked up, and I'll never forgive myself for what I did to you. It was a mistake. No, it was so much more than a mistake, I can't even describe it or properly say how fucking sorry I am. If you want me to tell you I'm sorry everyday for the rest of my life, I will. I would do anything for you, no matter what."

Louis nervously eyed the walls. "I... Look, what you're saying is mad. Are you okay?"

"No," the boy admitted as he took several steps into Louis' direction, stealing his personal space. "I'm afraid to be alone. I'll be absolute shit without you. You mean everything to me, Louis, and I know I annoy you sometimes, but I won't even talk anymore if you don't want me to. You could just talk and I'd just... sit and admire what you're like. If you'd let me do that, just give me a second chance, I swear to you, I won't disappoint."

"Maybe you should talk to someone." Instinctively, the teenager tucked a spiraling curl behind Harry's ear, petting his face with the back of his fingers and causing him to lean into his touch. "What you said before... I'm worried about you. Do you wanna chat outside?"

"Why?" Harry wondered, breathless and teary-eyed. "So you can tell me how much you care and that you want what's best for me just so you feel a bit less guilty when you break my heart? We're great together, it only works when you're with  _me_."

"I'm sorry, but, no—"

He brushed Louis aside on his way back toward the kitchen, ignoring the call of his name as he rifled through drawers and cupboards, unwilling to abide by rules of courtesy in the late night. Keeping a distance from Louis who sternly asked him to calm down, he found himself a boning knife and brought up to his arm.

"Don't break up with me," Harry threatened, pointing the blade to his skin. The stillness of the boy's chest encouraged him to carry on, feeding off of the disbelief - the trepidation - in his dazzling blue eyes. "Please... Say you won't break up with me."

Louis was apparently unsure of what to do. "Harry..." His voice was nearly absent. "Just don't... Please."

Regardless of what he'd said, taking the necessary steps backward of Louis with every attempt  _he'd_  taken towards him, Harry stabbed his bicep, and then cut his wrist, before Louis ferociously started chasing him.

"Stop!" Louis screamed, lunging for the knife over the island whilst the boy continued to puncture himself. "Fucking stop it, Harry, please! Please!"

"Don't break up with me!"

"Give me the fucking knife!"

"I can't!" Blood was oozing from his open wounds, trailing behind him in messes and horrible, bright spills. "I want to be with you! I don't have anything else in my life but you, Louis!"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" The boy started crying, hiccuping and standing still in weak defeat. "What are you trying to do to me?!"

From all of the commotion, Johannah, the mother of the house, called out to her son from her bedroom, generating a second dosage of overwhelming anxiety; and the next moment later, Louis' elder younger sisters were coming into the kitchen to ascertain his safety, to which Louis denied everything. He'd disclosed the fact that he and Harry had ever dated - that their momentary association was nothing but a friendship not worth mentioning - which caused the man to frown whilst clutching his burning wrist. He didn't understand why Louis' sisters didn't confront the evident problem after seeing blood on the floor, as surely they must have seen it. However, they dismissed it, accepting Louis' authority over them and the amount of respect in their relationship, and left him there with Harry from whom they all sensed grave danger.

Not even a moment later, Louis was tackling Harry with hugs and kisses, crying into his shoulder with unbelievable pain as he removed the knife from him and tossed it across the floor. He'd hold Harry's bleeding arm with as much pressure as he could whilst being completely vulnerable, begging, apologising and sobbing nonsense, so much so that Harry relaxed under the attention. Because the boy devoted himself to him, even if just for that time, Harry stood in triumph - not happily, as he hardly expressed happiness, but satisfaction.

The power, the control, and the serenity all raging throughout Harry's veins was incomprehensible. In times like this, there was no need to show shame in having antisocial personality disorder, for if he had been given the option to choose between living with antisocial personality disorder or as a normal human being, he'd not have changed a thing, for, truly, he admired the ability to not feel remorse, regret, sympathy, sorrow or love. To not be burdened by what seemed such horrible reins was heaven to him, though there was no such place, and to not appreciate it more than he hated it would have been foolish. Yet that supremacy only lasted until Louis' stepfather arrived home from a late night at work.

He'd looked at the scenery until his face turned red - the bloodied floor, the knife underneath the table, his crying stepson - and charged toward the stranger with his fists tight and raging.

Louis threw himself at the man's mercy. "Dan, wait!" he pleaded, forcing his stepfather still. "Please don't hurt him! I'm fine, he hasn't done anything!"

He, Daniel, as Harry remembered, took one good look at the blood that was transferred onto his shirt and yanked Louis away by the elbow. "You, get the fuck out my fucking house!" Dan outstretched his arm to grab - or punch or strangle - Harry, but snatched his collar instead.

To this, Harry reacted almost before the assault. "W-Wait!" the boy cried, suddenly expressing fear in every way he knew how. "I didn't touch him! I wouldn't do anything to hurt Louis, ever!"

"Keep my kid's name out your fucking mouth, mate! I swear to God, I will break your fucking face!"

As their showcases clashed, Louis pulled at the man's clothes and arms to rip him away from his date, which was then more or less accurate, but failed, screaming, "Dan, please, stop!" and, "He needs to go to hospital!"

But his voice was as good as shot.

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" the father continued. "How do you know him?"

"He's my boyfriend."

"Bullshit!"

Harry put a worried face on, throwing his gaze at Louis so that he might explain their relationship to his father, but the boy was too panicked to speak up. This very short amount of time left Dan angrier than ever.

He hauled Harry round the island by the front of his shirt, forcefully guiding him out. "Get out! Don't come back, don't ring him!"

"Or what?" Harry said, ripping himself out of the man's grasp. "What're you gonna do? His relationships are none of your business."

"What? You really about to play that with me, kid?!" Dan shoved his intruder out of the kitchen. "Get out! Stay away from my son, you bloody creep! You fucking psychotic piece of shit!"

"Say whatever you want, but stop touching me."

But he hadn't stopped. He pushed Harry again and again until the last time, whereas the boy pushed back, causing Louis to jump between them. And Harry came so unbelievably close to wrenching or hitting him, but he took a step backward to remember his notion. He did not drive two hours to Doncaster to assault his date or his date's stepfather, even if he had been provoked. He never intended to physically harm him; his task was simply set on manipulation. He needed control over the situation - to ensure that their ties wouldn't break under the misfortune that was their ineluctable "breakup". The point to his invasion was to cling onto Louis' emotions like a leech. He wanted to suck the life out of him, essentially, and guide him to lose his sense of independence. It might have been difficult to grasp the fact that Harry wanted a relationship so badly, but it should not have been. The truth was that he did not want a relationship; the thought of completely engaging in someone else sickened him. What he wanted was his trophy for handling Louis for so long. Of course, he got on with him rather well, had found him more compatible than any other boy he'd gotten involved with, but he hadn't gone after Louis for anything other than sex. And he still wanted that. He allowed himself to think that Louis was it; nothing could ever be better than sex with  _that_.

However, he thought of it for too long. Given a chance to apologise for what he'd done, something he did not do, he was subsequently removed from the household where an ambulance arrived shortly afterward. Yet before this, Harry remained stood by the door, arms bleeding and leaving him lightheaded and ill, listening to the hostile conversation amongst the family that all gathered once he left.

"Why would you let a fucking psycho like that in this house?!" the father shouted. "You're  _so_  lucky he didn't hurt any of you. You better tell me now, Louis - if he put a finger on you, I'll chase him down to that bloody hospital—"

"I didn't know! I didn't know he would do something like that!"

"What do you mean you didn't know? That stupid prick said you're his boyfriend."

"He's your boyfriend?!" That must had been one of the elder sisters. "Why?!"

Louis began speaking again. "I'm not seeing him anymore... I told him that before he came. I didn't—"

"I can't believe you could be so irresponsible," said the mother. "You put yourself in danger, maybe even all of us. I couldn't even come out to help you, I had to stay with the twins."

"I'm sorry." Louis' voice was too much like that of a child. He sounded smothered in his own mind; it was nearly unappealing.

"I don't care how you do it," Dan continued lowly. "You better make sure that boy can take a hint. You know I have no problem going to jail for you."

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_update_ **

 

I'm at hospital now. My mother's dog bit me and I nearly passed out from the blood loss, but I'm fine. The dog isn't mean or anything; I think she was just agitated because one of her puppies died. Anyway, I'm really fucking mad. They've just rang my mother and told her what happened, as she wasn't home when I was bitten, and despite her understanding, she doesn't like when these things happen to me.

I spoke with Elijah and it's official: he hates me and so does his family. And, unfortunately, my mother's concluded that she's allowed to decide what's best for me, which is absolutely fucked up.

fri. 1/7/2015

 

When he clicked  _SHARE_ , he'd glanced round the corridor of the hospital as he shoved his cellphone into his pocket. He knew he was meant to hand it over to the nurse who had been tending to him all that morning, but he wanted to hold onto it. He didn't trust people with his personal items, especially when it came to his cellphone which he'd use all throughout the day for work, blogging, and determinedly managing his double life without being caught. He'd built the structure of his blog very strictly. There was to be no reliable source of facts linked to him, no surnames, no ages, no birthplaces, no ethnicities or relations between himself and his viewers. Only aliases did suffice; changing small pieces of his life so that Charlie's could not be traced back to him. Since losing his secrets to Louis' suspicion, he figured that nothing was worth more than his safety. He wanted to feel safe with his phone on him and himself in his phone.

"Harry?" a woman, appearing to be in her early forties, said. "Can I call you that or do you prefer something else?"

The boy fixed his t-shirt over his jeans whilst taking her in. To him, she wasn't very pretty. "Harry's fine."

"Okay, Harry, I'm going to have a quick look at your arm, all right? Make sure you're fine to go."

"Thanks, but I don't need it."

"It isn't up for debate. You went straight through your muscle with that knife. Now that that cocaine has nearly worn off, you'll be feeling quite sore eventually. I need to check you before it gets too painful." She was scooping her hair back into a ponytail. "Can you touch your fingers to your thumbs, please? Both hands, slowly."

Bitterly, Harry outstretched his arms and did as instructed, bringing his fingers to his thumbs. He'd done so patiently until his left hand shook under the struggle of touching his pinky.

"Can you get that one?" the woman inquired.

Harry didn't say anything in return - merely scrunched up his face at her and tried again, this time quicker than before. He'd managed through that exercise, then reached to the ceiling as far as he could without hurting himself, along with other such things. He was told to use his arms normally during the healing process whilst refraining from heavy lifting and unnecessary stretches. The nurse offered him fresh bandages, plasters, a topical, analgesics that most definitely would react badly with his medication (though he hadn't told anyone that for he wasn't very keen on painkillers to begin with). Soon thereafter, he was transferred to Millstone Psychiatric Hospital where he met his mother, stepfather and his kids Marcus and Zoe to speak with the intake specialist. They'd all evaluated him, his mother in tears about his so-called "suicide attempt", which is what he also called it. Once concluding that Harry was a danger to himself, the psychiatrist allowed him to lay his signature on a document to sell his soul; if not, his admission would have been handled for him. He was stripped of his cellphone finally, his keys, jewelry, headphones, wallet, clothes and shoes, then searched for weapons, yet (and this didn't take much bargaining) he was allowed to keep one hair tie.

The institution, otherworldly as it seemed to him, drowned in soft chatter and loud laughter. To traipse through a psychiatric facility where there was absolutely no screaming within the first five minutes did appear uncommon; given his own experience and that of the people he'd read about on the Internet, visiting a generally calm hospital interested him. The lady who was so kind to volunteer to give Harry a tour informed him that the patients had their free time during this hour, but if it suited him, he was not required to spend his hour in group with the others, for she was aware of his current sleep deprivation. The walls were green and off-white, and the floors had been waxed at most a few days prior. There were flowers sitting in a hard plastic vase which sat on a wooden table at the end of the corridor, and beside the table, a woman in a dress reaching just past her knees, displaying her hairy legs and scarred feet, stood solving a Rubic's cube. As Harry and the staff took their way round her, he and she locked eyes, but she withdrew almost instantaneously before running off retching.

Harry turned back to the nurse. "What's wrong with her?" he said, detangling a piece of his hair with his fingers.

"Schizophrenia."

"Why is she throwing up?"

"Oh. She has the most horrid migraines."

When Harry was shown his room, a plain living space with two beds - one entirely thrown and the other carefully made to standard - and a chess of drawers, he found himself very unimpressed. Sunlight intruded harshly through the window, even despite the shutters, which would have caused a problem as the newer bed lay closer to the light than the other.

After seeing the room, he was shown the toilet and shower, the dining hall, a portrait of a little girl and a rabbit, and then the commons. The staff, Lucinda is what he thought her name was, pointed out a blue-eyed, bearded man who, supposedly, was one of the sweetest patients in the adult facility. Because she described him with such magnificent character, Harry was compelled to subject him to a staring contest once the man realised their chatting about him. Taking Harry off guard, this man stared back, and neither were intimidated. They eyed each other, simply curious, until Lucinda beckoned Harry over to see him to the grounds. Over his shoulder every now and again, he continued to glance at the man.

This patient was called Mikahel, Harry's roommate. He was nearly twenty years Harry's senior who came from Nice, France. He was a quiet, sad man - hardly spoke to anyone besides the nurse to ask her for things that he wasn't permitted, though Harry didn't mind. He himself wasn't social, even more so amongst strangers, so it wasn't a bother that his roommate didn't speak to him. If he thought about it, he'd much rather prefer not being spoken to. Regardless of how often Mikahel acknowledged him, Harry found him to be quite attractive.

After his tour of the hospital, he was allowed to sleep until 10:00 the next morning.

His first official day at Millstone, Harry was introduced to his guild: Jadin, Bethany, Eric, Arthur, and, of course, Mikahel. Jadin and Eric were the youngest (eighteen and twenty-two) though they didn't act like it. From a small analysis, it was clear that Bethany was the childish one; always making faces to get a laugh out of anyone and everyone, chatting about her old college stories, giving herself compliments as though she were two people. She must had been near Harry's age. Eric was an easily irritated individual. He participated in simple conversations, but didn't conduct any. His head was shaven and he wore a silver necklace with a cross on it. Mikahel only spoke to Eric because Eric would rarely say a word back. Jadin had a poor habit of sitting on his hands until they turned unbelievably red in colour, and Arthur, referred to as Art, was a public masturbator.

Harry didn't feel the need to get acquainted - didn't quite like any of them - but he figured it a good choice to do so considering the hospital's awareness of his diagnosis.

During group that day, the commons were cluttered with noise. Several people laughed sinisterly at the incompetent contestants on  _Wheel of Fortune_  which was usually televised at that hour whilst others either cried, argued or screamed. Unlike those people, though, Harry's guild did nothing but speak very loudly. Even so, sat in the centre of a blue couch across a table, Harry shuffled a deck of cards for Jadin as he watched Bethany and Arthur play checkers.

"Ooh," Bethany teased, jumping one of Arthur's black pieces. "Look who's winning."

The man set his chin on his fists, keeping his fatigued head up as best he could. "Don't be a bitch. I'd try to beat you if you didn't go fucking mental when you lose."

"You fucking me?" She stuck a cheese cube in her mouth. "I don't lose."

Harry leaned in as Arthur did, watching the man watch the game board and consider each potential move. Differently from the other boys, Harry was entirely enthralled by their game. He'd forgotten he had been shuffling Jadin's cards, holding them in his large, possessive hands and refusing to let go no matter how nicely Jadin asked. Harry licked his lips, eyes shooting back and forth between Arthur's face and the board. The uncertainty was troubling, yet as Arthur moved the wrong piece in the wrong direction (according to Harry's judgement), Bethany laughing as she stole his remaining pieces in one move, it died subsequently.

"That's shit," Arthur whined, standing up to stretch. "Fuck that game."

The girl pulled a snide face and leaned back in her chair to perfectly station it on the hind legs. "What, are you gonna cry?"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck me? I bet you would."

Jadin finally snatched his cards from Harry's grasp. "You already know," Jadin mumbled just before conducting an obscene jerking motion with his hand. "Art prefers other things."

Majority of them laughed, even Mikahel who wasn't audible though his smile was evident, yet Harry remained in character rather professionally. And as they all laughed, Harry stood from his seat to rip the cheap chess box from one of the anorexic girls and sat in Arthur's chair.

He scooped up the checker pieces, dropped  them in Eric's lap who grew angry though compulsively began to sort them, and started lining up the pawns. He carelessly ignored Bethany's wrathful eyes. "Can you play chess?" Harry asked her.

She carried coyness, lacing her fingers over the table and tilting toward her self-proclaimed opponent. "You tryna take a piss, Mister Styles?" she whispered.

"You're shit at checkers." Harry wouldn't look at her - not even once she seethed - as he thought her formality to be humourously ironic. "If it takes you that long to win, you suck. It's a children's game."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"You're lucky Art is ten times worse than you. You would have lost to anyone else. Brutally."

"I ain't shit at checkers," Arthur asserted. "I lost on purpose 'cause she acts a prat on her period when she doesn't win. You've gotta be the bigger man, you know what I'm saying? She'll fuck you up if not. This place is against us men anyway. They're all sexist. And believe me, I know. Some lass not too much younger than me got slapped on the wrist for hiding scissors when I got locked up all day for doing the exact same shit. Girls get away with everything, you know what I'm saying?"

"Yes," Harry affirmed. "Neurotypicals are sexist and psychiatric hospital mistreatment is very real. I'm sure we can all agree on that. But I haven't played chess with a real-life person in years."

"She don't like you, mate. Look at her face."

Harry raised his head. Bethany had another cheese cube in her mouth, bubblegum in his, though they hardly chewed. They were too absolutely busy staring, something that seemed severely common in that ward - more commonly than the last hospital Harry had visited. He'd look into Bethany's deep brown eyes, notice the pronounced freckles on her rosy skin, her thick fringe, and full, non-heart-shaped lips. She was sultry, exposing too much of her body in her raunchy yellow top, but nevertheless, still stupidly pompous. Harry needn't fight her pretty, scolding face with his own, for she was nothing to him but that: a pretty face which scolded everyone.

Their chess match didn't last long. Harry had submitted to her desire to move first, but found her queen's vulnerability within three minutes, several seconds after group was called to an end and several seconds before Bethany was flipping the game board.

"Nice one, dickhead!" Arthur exclaimed, standing briskly. "A mental prat on her period, this one!"

The girl pushed her friend backward, causing him to stumble into the couch and collapse on the lads. "Shut the fuck up, cunt!"

Aware that the conflict needed to be subdued, Harry rose from his chair with her as three of the staff hurried near. One nurse welcomed all of them, including the bystanders who witnessed the commotion, to head back to toward the corridor, another offering her complete and undivided attention, as well as her hand, to Bethany who certainly didn't wish to be touched at that time. The last nurse was Lucinda. She had a cellphone in her hand and a banana in the other, sweetly waving them for attention on the sidelines. Harry thought her to be somewhat immature of the mind, finding her personality too childish for adulthood, but after a moment of frowning in her direction, he realised that that gesture was for  _his_  attention, and that cellphone belonged to him.

"You think you're clever, mate?" Bethany provoked, stepping round the table. "Just 'cause you talk some shit and play an old man's game, you think you're so fucking brilliant?"

"Harry, come on!" Lucinda waved his cellphone again. "Special instructions to use your phone! Don't retaliate, let's go."

Resisting his escort out of the room, Eric smacked Harry's arm. "Come on, man," he told him. "Have a go at her. She's a bloody witch."

Harry's eyes darted from face to face.

"Harry!" Lucinda called again. "Time to go."

He pondered taking his phone along with the banana and leaving his restless guild behind to throw their own tantrums, but a realisation abruptly strangled him. These people, a bunch of egocentric, oversensitive hellions, were, whether he wanted to be believe it or not, his people. He was perceived as a Cluster B affiliate, which was correctly placed, and yet, with forceful thought he established a notion that would ultimately contort his life's guise. Looking at Lucinda and her expectations of him, to act the bigger, more intelligent person and walk away, he did nothing but say goodbye to all his privileges and give in to the stigma of the Cluster B personality.

Harry pulled his lips between his teeth as he studied Bethany's psyche. "You gonna keep staring at me?" he pressed, tucking his hair behind his ears. "Take a picture, it'll last longer." He had never used the phrase a day in his life; not even in his head.

To that, Bethany scoffed. "How old are you, twelve?"

"Wanna find out?" He pointed to his crotch and grinned. "Only if you're nice."

"Sure. I'll just stab you in the face with my keys and call it defense against sexual harassment." She watched Harry chew his gum. "What, you think we don't know you? Think we haven't seen your mug before? My fucking plant knows your name."

"Good to know I'm popular. Not that I needed your word to figure that."

The nurses had just finished collecting the groups into their designated areas, shutting off the dreadful music on their way out before returning with decorated police officers who carried tasers, handcuffs and batons. Harry had seen these things - these weapons - many times in his many years, and, though he had never been a victim of police brutality and had never resisted arrest, he tried to imagine how effortlessly one of the robust officers could detain him. His thought suggested how he might have handled it had he gotten himself handcuffed, tasered or beaten. Under typical circumstances, it was highly unlikely - so low in probability it was laughable. The current circumstance, nonetheless, although he didn't necessarily wish to stir vigilance amongst the policemen, were deliberate and very real.

Harry washed away most of the stupidity dirtying his inner-being without making it clear, the unappealing idea of borrowing that of someone else, who was rather injudicious and repugnant in his raw opinion, creating him some horrific stress.

A tempting future in mind, he provoked Bethany until she'd hit him, then he'd hit her back just slightly harder for many reasons. Succeeding, they were both pried apart in their brief yet apparently intense brawl, the girl getting pushed down on her knees and Harry slammed over the table. His chest firm against the cold surface, arms yanked behind himself, he continued to mimic Bethany's narcissistic tantrum, fighting the handcuffs as he swore at her. And it did look legitimate. He blamed her for their outbursts, insulted her emotional capacity and slandered her about her immature behaviour, and cried thereafter with physical tears staining his reddened face, and only then would he give in. He gave in to the detainment, exhausted and heaving from the worst wailing episode he'd had since childhood. There was a tiny struggle within him as he rose to his feet to be escorted out of the room to not show his anger in the fact that Bethany had outshone him in their little teen drama. She could not have really been crying - not  _really_. Or if so, and hadn't been faking her hurt as Harry did, she would soon discover the bruise on her face and on her ego later on in anger.

As he passed Lucinda and her bitter disappointment, he frowned, on command of course, and shook his hair around a moment later to hide his mischievous eyes still very monotoned.

Of the remaining hours of his first official day in Millstone, Harry sat alone. He was told that he was not permitted to physically harass any of the other patients or staff members, and would otherwise be punished for doing so. He'd prepared for isolation, again after the last few times at the last hospital, and had a childhood full of similar experiences behind him. The tactic did not inherently bother him - he preferred his own company a lot of the time - but it did become a bother after a while because there was no telling when they would release him, how many more times he would have to play this character theft game, whether or not Bethany was closely reaching her departure, or whether someone would learn his motive and recognise his disorder as anything other than NPD. He had the opportunity then and there to fix the direction in which he wanted his reevaluation to go before the actual assessment (he was not informed of an assessment, but rather a session with a psychologist), but chose to stick with the narcissistic personality. One who often spent his free time reading, researching and writing for complex essay prompts should have had the ability to properly perform the credentials of what he'd read about, and being one who willingly did all these things along with his own psychiatric studies, Harry thought to try his best in imitating a clinical narcissist.

He slept by himself in that room - on the bed in the very centre of the cold floor - after looking at a water spot near the wall and thinking about Louis briefly.

"Mornin', hon."

The boy fixed his hair as he walked into the room. There was a candle on at the table, a pink and yellow couch with matching chairs, a large basket stacked high with blankets toward the left side, a television, two desks, another basket for stress-relieving toys, and several hanging pictures of animals, plants, landscapes and racially diverse people encircling the sitting space. After looking, he decided that the biracial redhead was who most people would the prettiest one on the wall.

"Hey," Harry said, lingering in front of the woman at the desk once he walked in. She was on her computer clicking away with work, but Harry could not care. "Have you nearly finished? Group's at ten and Lucinda said I can put music on today."

"Oh, yeah? What's your favourite band?"

"The Four Seasons."

"Really? They're definitely up there in my favourites, too." The woman smiled very charmingly, showing off her straight, white teeth, and pressed a button on her keyboard. "I'll try to get you out for group as soon as possible, sweetheart. Get yourself comfy - I'll be with you in a second."

He sighed, rolled his eyes, and flicked the bobblehead at the edge of the desk before sitting down to a chair. Harry wasn't nervous as he waited - he didn't get nervous. He was, however, in high hopes of having enough time to finalise how he needed to go about the evaluation. After a thousand sessions, and for the hundredth psychologist, he knew how to avoid questions, to decrease suspicion in what he said and increase it in things which he didn't. He had more or less become an expert in getting what he wanted, he thought, but had disproved that concept when he got removed from Louis' home and life on account of his very convincing manipulative strategies.

The woman came out to properly greet Harry after completing her desktop work.

"Mind if I sit here?" she asked, taking the chair beside him.

"No, be my guest."

She smiled at that and sat cross-legged on the cushion. "Well, I'm Evelin. I'm gonna be evaluating you today. What would you like me to call you, pumpkin?"

"Harry's fine." He chose to match the woman in casualty, so he leaned back and crossed his right leg over his knee as he looked at her. "So how long does this normally take? Like half an hour?"

"It depends on how quick we go through each assessment. Hypothetically, yes, you could finish in half an hour, but--"

"I'd like to do that then."

"Yeah?" Evelin's charisma was just as lovely as Harry's, when caught at the right time. "Well, we better get started. First, I'd like to ask if there are any photographs that make you uncomfortable. Would you like me to cover any of them?"

"Uncomfortable?" the boy wondered, and the lady nodded. "No... But that black girl with the red hair, if you don't mind. She's quite ugly, isn't she?"

The first assessment, after a quick look into his medical history and a psychological test, was getting to know each other. The woman disclosed information about her family, her moving them from Louisiana, USA some months back, and the fact that her dog of twelve years had recently passed away. Harry knew why she told him this. It was written all over her face. He didn't react as he personally would, and not even typically; he listened to her closely as though to pay her the attention she was due, but then dismissed her by going on about himself. He told her that he had a cat. Only it wasn't his cat - it was his mother's cat - yet he bragged about it. The words "beautiful" and "independent" rolled out of his mouth whilst describing her, and then he said that his father had gone to Louisiana before. Although his father truly had visited the American state, Harry hated Louisiana. He hated the people, the food, the culture in general. He wouldn't say this, however. Afterward, he proceeded to explain that he was a role model to his brother Donovan, regardless of whether it was true or not, and that nothing served their relationship less than Harry's being locked up in that mental hospital.  _What is Donnie to think of me?_  he would imply, and leaving that idea alone for interpretation, Evelin moved on to the next stage.

Harry was given the chance for a first impression of his relationships with his family. He nearly began with his mother, as that is what made sense to him, but he chose to start at the worst people possible.

“My stepbrother," Harry said, putting together a puzzle which Evelin allowed him to use. "He's a dick. Like... a massive fucking dick. My mum remarried about three years after the divorce and my stepbrother used to beat me up. That guy has got some major emotional issues, I swear."

The woman watched his assortment of the puzzle pieces as she hummed thoughtfully. "Did that ever upset you? Your own stepbrother beating you like that must've been... really traumatising, especially on top of everything else you went through. Growing up, my sister would beat me up, too, and let me tell you, I gave it to her once I had enough. I'm not encouraging that behaviour. It was wrong, but... people can only take so much, you know?"

"No, yeah, I get that. I did beat him up, though. I was nine, like I said, and he was thirteen. He would do this thing where he'd call for me, saying our parents needed my help just so he could catch me off guard and hit me with something. A lot of the time, it wouldn't work 'cause he's a fucking idiot and I'm smarter than him. Always have been. But this one time, I decided to go downstairs when he called. I was pissed off and quite annoyed at him, I figured he needed to learn a lesson. So I got out of bed and went into his sister's room for one of her golf clubs, you know, 'cause she used to be the athletic one before I surpassed her. I went downstairs with it, anticipating Marcus to come out. When I reached the kitchen, he popped out with this thing, trying to hit me with it. I don't remember what it was. I did take quite a while upstairs, so he probably forgot about me by the time he saw me. He was still trying to get a grip on this thing he was holding, so I nailed him in the face. He wasn't ready for it. He started crying... Like really, really crying, holding his mouth and everything, which was bleeding, by the way. I dropped the golf club and punched and kicked him a good amount before his dad came to pull me off of him.

"My mother wasn't there at the time. My stepdad was begging us not to tell her what happened. He would cry all this bullshit like, 'Please don't tell your mum you hit Marcus! Please, Harry, she'll be so pissed at me!' Marcus was the violent one, but my mum knew me quite well and she warned them both that I would explode eventually. She didn't want me acting out that way, to stoop that low. She saw it as their problem to deal with, not mine. But it wasn't even the worst I could've done. What I wanted to do was beat the piss out of him. Make him think twice next time he wanted to fuck with me. Then I would've taken a photo afterwards to show everyone at school how bad I beat his arse and subsequently embarrass him. No one at school found out, though. He told everyone he got in a fight with some older lads in their twenties. I didn't say anything 'cause my mum would've found out. Back then, I tried to stay on her good side because she would always buy me shit if I was good. Now, obviously, she doesn't care much for that. Instead, she's put me in this prison with all these bloody psychopaths."

"Why don't you tell me more about Mom? You say she bought you things if you were good?"

"She stopped doing that when I was in college. She was seriously losing money on me, but... she should've thought of that before she decided to spoil me. It went from new toys to cellphones and brand name shoes before she knew it. She didn't have any money, but she told me I needed to do the right thing regardless of any reward I might get. Like have good morals. But fuck that, you know? I did whatever the bloody hell I wanted, and since I didn't really care about getting in trouble, I was getting into a lot of it. I think the first time my mum went to speak to my teacher about my behaviour as a teenager, it was because I had been stealing money from the other kids. I had a business where I would do coursework for about five pounds, and since I was one of the smartest kids in my year group, I had a lot of people coming to me. However, after a few days, I got quite bored of it. I sometimes didn't feel like doing extra coursework, but I still wanted the money. I would bullshit the questions I didn't want to think too much about and would sometimes charge more, saying that  _this_  assignment was  _really_  hard this time. One of the kids realised he got a shit grade on something and told his teacher I stole money from him, then a bunch of other kids queued up to grass. My mum grounded me that night and told me to give the money back the next day, but I went out and spent it all."

"On what?"

"Weed. And I got my ears pierced."

Evelin laughed at that, which caused Harry to smile pridefully.

Finishing up the 150-piece puzzle, a picture of a bright forest revealed on top, he tucked his hair behind his ears and pulled on his small, shiny earrings. "Do you like them?" Harry inquired. "They're real diamonds. An old birthday present from my stepdad."

"Of course! But obviously you don't need jewelry like that. You're already so handsome as you are."

"Thank you!" He really couldn't let go of the joy coating his entire face - he wouldn't allow himself. "I think you're very beautiful, as well."

"Thanks, sweet pea." She pointed to the completed puzzle. "Mind if I put this up?"

"No, go for it."

"So, what happened between you and Bethany yesterday?" Evelin said, returning the pieces into the box. "You two were awful upset with each other."

"She can't handle losing. Simple as that."

"How did that make you feel? The whole event, did you think--"

"It was her fault. Thanks to Bethany, I've got to do this shit when I didn't do anything wrong. If she didn't go fucking mental, we wouldn't have had a problem, but that ugly, narcissistic twat didn't know her place."

"Okay." It was clear that she was slightly thrown by the way Harry spoke about the girl - perhaps a little confused - but she nodded along anyhow. "Baby, you shouldn't hit people, though. Not out of spite."

"She hit me first! Are you seriously gonna fucking lecture me about this?!"

"I'm not lecturing you. I want you to understand that acting out won't help you. It doesn't accomplish anything. The best you can do is ignore her, 'cause honestly, there will be a lot of people in your life that upset you and you can't just fight them all. I mean, you could, but I don't think it would help you. Violence doesn't solve anything."

"You're wrong," Harry stated firmly, genuinely. He didn't say anything for quite some time after that; stared at the woman so near him. "My stepbrother locked me in a closet for two days when I was eight years old. He left me wallowing in my own filth, starving, freezing cold. I got ill in there and nearly died. And this retarded pissant had the audacity to cry when I beat his worthless arse with a golf club. And Frida Velasquez, the one I stabbed in the face with my keys - she thought the same way you do. That slutty,  _perverted cunt_  had it coming, and she went to jail and I didn't. You say violence doesn't solve anything and you're a fool for thinking that."

It was roughly twelve o'clock as they finished; the approach of lunchtime had almost crept round them. Evelin sent him out after the last assessment where he played a game of computer chess and put his silly, wrathful behaviour on full display once losing a match on purpose.

Harry greeted Lucinda as he walked into group. The common room was rather tidy and orderly at this hour, the patients having finished clearing their messes to start preparing for lunch, and although Harry preferred the calmness over the usual mayhem, he couldn't have that. He smiled at Lucinda, politely ignoring the frown she had for him, and asked her if he was still permitted to play his music. He twiddled his hair as he did so. And she had said that, yes, he could put on one song, however it could only be upbeat and not too long, and under one strict condition. Harry hadn't any time that day for physical therapy, his psychological evaluation needing to pool over throughout the day, so he could play music if he agreed to exercise, to which he replied: "Of course".

"Hey, mate, it's good to see ya," Arthur said, pulling the boy into a grand hug. "How was your night in the shit hole? Shitty?"

Harry was busy connecting his cellphone to the speakers via bluetooth. "As fuck."

"I figured as much. But you're sane, so that's good. And I can see you're not dribbling, so they haven't amped up your medication. That shit happens, you know what I'm saying?"

"I want you to do something for me."

"Something?" The man grinned. "Like what?"

"Work out with me. Just for a minute, I don't imagine it'll take long."

"Exercising," Arthur confirmed, nodding his head and thinking for good measure. "I'm not too athletic, but I ain't got a problem with it. Put on some tunes we can get down to and I'm yours."

Harry did just that. Once syncing his iPhone and illegally downloaded music, and after turning the volume way up on the speaker (or at least as loud as he could make it), he took the other's hand and lead him to the centre of the room as the song started to play. Immediately, the young man fixed his backside to Arthur's pelvis and ground against him. And almost directly after, Arthur's face lifted in excitement, humour, pride and everything else bubbling up within him. He pointed down at Harry's movements, showing him off and making himself feel much cooler than what everyone already thought.

"Harry!" Lucinda shouted. "Knock it off!"

The lot of patients that were once just about to leave to the kitchen were now racing back into the room, laughing and clapping along with the beat.

"Can I dance alone?" Harry pulled away from Arthur, who was somewhat reluctant, and ran his hands all over himself. "This is okay, right?"

"No! Stop before I turn it off!"

He shrugged, but flicked his hair over to one side as he continued dancing on his lonesome. Though that didn't last long. The song was a very encouraging song - had a welcoming tune - so others joined in much sooner than later, and then Harry had many dance partners. The group that formed consisted of some of his guild members, Eric, Art and Jadin (who joined later on), along with two anorexic girls, the hairy schizophrenic for a second or so, a mixture of men and women and possibly other genders coming in to dance with him specifically. Harry found it ironic that no one listened very closely to the lyrics of the song, for they were extremely inappropriate in that environment. Someone might even call them toxic. And Harry sang the lyrics, too. He sang them exceptionally well, moving round the room to say hello to everyone in the sexiest ways he knew how, swaying his hips and touching his hair all the way toward Bethany. She sat on the couch with an ice pack atop her swollen mouth, grimacing at that lying, two-faced quintessence of trickery, and he simply blew her a kiss.

Harry didn't want to do this. He did enjoy dancing, and singing every now and then, but to this extent was a bit silly. Naturally, he could tolerate an act for as long as necessary, but this one was rather elaborate, and a single slip-up was not affordable.

The song was nearly over. He only need perform for one more chorus.

Sticking to the doorway, however, fond and enthusiastic as he could be, Mikahel watched the lot of frolicking bodies. He had a soft smile on his lips, but after a while of observation, his eyes fell onto Harry, and the smile slowly disappeared. There was definitely a way Harry moved that made Mikahel seem both curious and frightened at once, a certain look on his face as he cautiously backed away. But that couldn't have been enough.

Outstretching his hand to him, Harry guided the elder man from the outskirts of the room and sang to him there, dancing very invitingly and seductively. It was only a matter of time before Mikahel put his hands on the boy's waist and pulled him closer.

Later on in the night, whilst mostly everyone was asleep or pretending to be, Harry had Mikahel in their room against the wall. They had skipped out on the night medication, as it was Harry's idea, to muster up their own feelings rather than use those from artificial emotions. The younger lad was fumbling in the dark to find something within himself he could use to pull Mikahel out of his current depressed state in order to have sex with him. It did work; Harry let him vent as he held him, kissed his face and shoulder a few times, and reminded him that everyone in the world was an idiot. And then they had extravagant sex where the younger boy got his hair pulled, his bum slapped, and a hand enclosed round his warm, gasping throat.

The act paid off in the long run, as he had anticipated. To Evelin, whom Harry roguishly confided in, his ego had deflated greatly since his admission. However, the positive changes in character couldn't have been enough to suggest that he was "better". They had scheduled an fMRI to ascertain that he suffered from narcissistic personally disorder and couldn't be misdiagnosed later, of which was handled with good luck. With the doctor whom Evelin had referred him to, there persisted an extensive waitlist stretching all the way into August, and Harry wasn't in the least bit obligated to get his brain scanned in the first place. Only this way, he did not seem reluctant. Moreover, Harry Styles was released eight days after. He walked out of the building with his bloodstained keys and a shiny cross dangling from his neck, almost entirely glowing despite the absence of internal glow. There was nothing he could do upon leaving as Eric made a vulgar fuss over his missing necklace but tuck it into his shirt and chew his gum.

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

_**how to: ted bundy**_   

 

 

 

My friend is giving me a haircut at the moment. I didn't want one, but definitely needed it. The most important thing about getting away with crime is camouflage.

**Edit:** Currently listening to "Baby Blue" by Badfinger.

fri. 8/6/2015

 

 

**Charlie Chamberlain:**

**_about my ASPD! Q &A (7)_ **

 

Q1: YOURE BACK!!!!! WTF WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN MY LOVE HOW ARE YOU

A: Here and there, and I'm fine.

 

Q2: literally everyone thought you died..... have you? and what do you mean "how to: ted bundy"??

A: Clearly. And it's just a title. I don't know if you've noticed, but they don't mean dick half the time.

 

Q3: Are you thinking of committing a crime..? Not trying to be rude, just being judgmental.

A: I'll forgive the rudeness because I dig your sense of humour.

 

Q4: how bad is the wound from mom's dog's bite? hopefully ur ok baby

A: It wasn't too bad. I had very good doctors.

 

Q5: Do you make money from this blog? Do you ever get sponsor offers?

A: Many companies have offered to sponsor me, but I'm not looking to get money from this.

 

Q6: I've been meaning to ask this, but you went away for a while and I didn't want my questions getting lost in the Q Box. Did Elijah ever return your calls? If yes, did he accept your apology and take you back? If no, did you end up going to his house to apologize in person? How did everything go?

A: He did return my calls, but we've decided it's best not to see each other anymore. He has a lot of things about him that I didn't previously know, just like myself, and those things in addition to my own make everything more complicated than they should be.

 

Q7: You've said you have ASPD but haven't stated what form you have.... About a month ago, you said people with ASPD can be narcissists, psychopaths or sociopaths. Which one are you?

A: I have never been diagnosed as any of these, but I have a pretty good idea of what I could be. I will never know which one I am until I get an fMRI, which could (dis)prove psychopathy, and although I don't mind making an educated guess, I'm no expert and can't diagnose myself. If it helps, I'm fairly fucking certain I'm not a narcissist. But that's exactly what a narc would say.

 

Q8: finally you talk about music!!!! is baby blue one of your fav songs?

A: It's definitely a good one.

 

Q9: How often do you masturbate lmao you seem like you masturbate every second of your life

A: Last time I masturbated was eight months ago where my girlfriend would get off on the sight of me masturbating. Hopefully that answers your question.

 

Q10: Do you believe in karma?

A: I believe that there's a time and place for everything. Your child starts screaming in a restaurant, you take them to the back and tell them to shut the hell up before you go home, and God forbid that child leaves public eye because they're about to get severely fucked up. Thing is, you go home because it would be inappropriate to beat your kid at a restaurant. Dinner in public is not the time or place for an arse-beating. There is an obvious catch to this ideology: everyone has their own "right place" and "right time". This is where the idea of karma comes from. Whether you're an angel or not, bad things will happen. That's just the way it is.

 

Q11: are you donating your hair sweet thing?

A: no

 

Q12: How are you antisocial? Example.

A: ASPD is a spectrum, to start off. Personally, I don't have all of the antisocial traits because I've learned to control impulses and behave "normally". But on a day where I really just don't care, you would probably just think I'm shy. This isn't to say that I let my guard down or act different than everyone else just because I feel like it - it can just get tiresome. And there are many formalities that could make someone initially antisocial. Some people experience horrible events and are overtaken by callousness as a subconscious defense mechanism, which in this case would be associated with sociopathy or narcissism. Other times, you're born that way, and this would be psychopathy.

So with that said, here's an example:

Several years ago, I was picking up my sister from a friend's house and saw a dog in the middle of the road. It didn't seem like it would be moving anytime soon, or at least not fast enough before I'd hit it, so I swerved the car, applied the brake and everything. It wandered off shortly afterward, so I was ready to start driving again. Before I did, though, a couple of kids came out and started shooting the dog with BB guns until it decided to lay there and take it. I watched them for a bit, then went back on my way.

I didn't avoid hitting the dog for the common reason of saving its life. I just really didn't want to have to repair the car, report the accident, contact the dog's owners if it had any, the lot. The dog didn't mean shit to me. Of course, it wouldn't have deserved to get hit by my car, and it probably didn't deserve to get shot by those kids. I thought about getting out to make the kids leave it alone, but then I'd have to take it to the vet (or my actions would've been superfluous) and pay for its treatment, be late to pick up my sister, so I just fucked off.

**Edit:**  If you want to learn more about ASPD, google it. I was diagnosed with conduct disorder, then antisocial personality disorder. I'm not claiming to be an expert on any of this and, frankly, I'm not here to educate you.

 

Q13: If I recognized you on the street and said hi, would you say hi back?

A: You wouldn't recognise me because you will never know what I look like. Even with that dick of a self-description I gave you, you can't be sure, and who's to say I described myself accurately? But if you did recognise me, which you couldn't possibly, and addressed me as Charlie, I would ignore you fast as fuck. Then you would be subsequently embarrassed that you said hi to the wrong person and walk away.

 

Q14: No one seems to be asking this so I'll ask, where tf did you go

A: To get a haircut

  

Q15: r u srsly gonna commit a crime,,? wyd......??

A: Setting houses on fire

 

Q16: I might have seen you at an Ancira dealership. I live in England and I'm almost positive you're from there as well. Anyway, a woman was chatting to this man who called her Charlie and your description matched the woman perfectly. She was quiet and a little snarky. Was it you?

A: You're delusional

 

Q17: Say something funny

A: My sister used to want a Willy Wonka haircut.

  

Q18: Favourite song by Elvis Presley?

A: Retarded

 

Q19: Charlie!!! I've missed your crusty dusty blog posts :") Were you sick?

A: No, I was sucking some cock

 

Q20: What are you camouflaging from?

A: Your mum

fri. 8/6/2015

 

On Monday morning at 6:00 precisely, Harry stepped out of the shower. His skin was bright and rosy against the steam, his short, wet hair feeling too light in weight to be his. He wiped the fog off the mirror, just enough to reveal his face and some of his physical imperfections, and took a long look at himself. His eyes were tired - still struggling to get over the medicinal techniques of the hospital - and he hadn't shaved in weeks. He wore an unkempt beard on his chin and jawline and a soft mustache shielding his promiscuous lips from even his own view. He hadn't an idea of how to make up himself. After a while of planning, with an electric razor, Harry trimmed his facial hair, then clipped his body hair. He plucked his eyebrows, cleaned them up the way he liked them, took care of his fingernails, moisturised his skin, brushed his teeth, then his hair before styling it the way he used to when he was nineteen. He couldn't decide if he looked younger or older, but when he put in a pair of hazel-coloured contacts, he looked like another person entirely. As he got dressed in his laziest clothes, no matter how he wanted to adorn himself in the blue falcon shirt from Need Supply in the back of his closet, the stranger in his reflection was unrecognisable. The thoughts he had, however, were undoubtedly his as he neglected putting his rings on his fingers, instead hooking his brand-new cross pendant round his neck.

He had to knock on the door twice before it finally opened for him.

The boy in the way of his passage was hardly clothed. He had on joggers, same as Harry, but no shirt, evidently just woken from a deep slumber. Words of exhaustion and annoyance gathered on his mouth, but he did not say them. Rather than complain about Harry's early arrival, he went wide-eyed and silent for the most unexpected thing. In some way, he seemed horrified.

"I never would've thought you could grow a beard," the lad mumbled as he stepped aside. "And tell me why the fuck you've chopped all your hair off, yeah? You look like my criminal uncle."

"Nice." Harry walked into the empty flat, peering round the corner of the living room. "Ready?"

"You kidding me? I've just bloody woke up." There was a long pause which the boy used to snatch a lightly abused cigarette from the ashtray on the table. He waited there with a bored look as Harry brought it upon himself to kindle a fire for him. The young man took a drag. "You could've at least rang me. I'm hungover. I don't think I can do it today."

"Don't bullshit me. I drove half an hour to get here." Harry gestured toward the sofa. "Sit down."

The lad was upset and reluctant, but he splayed himself out on the couch, legs wide open and arms covering his sleepy face.

Harry had gone over to Levi's aunt's nearly repossessed flat to write him a résumé for a potential caricaturist job. Even with charging no fee for what he normally required £15 minimum, Harry knew he would need to overwork himself with making Levi seem more hardworking and educated than he truly was, using words like "baroque" and "dilettante" in the "Why you should hire me" portion. He expressed the boy's sense of humour, his diligence (only ever exercised during sexual intercourse or conjuring joints, but that was irrelevant to the matter), and shared one of his more professional art social media accounts. He briefly mentioned Levi's housing situation as well as his aunt's financial situation, but failed to discuss that he was practically living on his own. His aunt Melissa came round to restock the refrigerator, make late payments on the rent, to occasionally sleep in her bedroom when she wasn't sleeping with her on-off boyfriend. Moreover, Levi had much potential to get the job. Whether he'd get the job out of pity was entirely up to the employer.

His head on Harry's shoulder, Levi skimmed over the résumé. "What does  _barrack_  mean?"

" _Baroque_. It's like an art style. Something you would describe as old-fashioned."

"Oh. What about  _dilettante_?"

"A person who doesn't know a bit about art. An amateur, basically."

"You dildo, I do know about art!"

Harry pointed at his laptop screen. "I know. I said you're not a dilettante."

"Sorry," Levi laughed as he pinched at the man's facial hair. "I'm just tired and a bit angry, and I've obviously got a headache."

_Why?_ was the appropriate inquiry, so Harry asked about his upset.

"I'm about to be fucking homeless at sixteen years old 'cause my psycho aunt would rather fuck off and leave me to fend for my fucking self than be the legal guardian that she was supposed to be." The boy suddenly jumped. "And speaking of being sixteen,  _you_  didn't go to my birthday party! You said you'd make an appearance and you fucking didn't!"

"I was busy." Then, it was true - Millstone had kept him through the kid's birthday weekend. "And you're mad I didn't go to your birthday party... I didn't know you were trans-age, acting like you're four years old."

"Okay, that's mean." Levi stood from the couch and stretched his arms over his head, revealing past his joggers the short distance between his stomach and juvenile manhood. "I would've fancied your visit. You know, something special just for me."

Harry grinned up at him. He closed the laptop and moved it aside, tilted his head rather woman-like, with some teasing inside him. "Let's go out then," he said.

"No," the teenager groaned, "I'm hungover."

"Have you got aspirin?"

"Yeah, I've obviously got aspirin. That's exactly why I'm complaining about my hangover."

Reaching into his pocket, Harry proposed two small pills. He examined the boy's face as he held it out in his palm. For a moment, Harry might have thought Levi wouldn't take the medication, which would have been a strange sight to see considering his unrequited love for it. He could see he was worried, perhaps about his headache if worried at all, but Levi took the pills regardless. And alongside that, Harry prepared him a glass of cold tea which he drank up in a heartbeat.

Amongst each attempt Harry took to wrap the finishing ties on the document, Levi was becoming more and more relaxed - more himself. The fact was subjective, however. In Harry's perception, Levi was in the process of behaving just the way the Levi that he knew always had. Each evening that they spent together, drowning in booze and high on eccentric hallucinogens, were evenings in which Levi was the epitome of entertainment. Some might have viewed him as a regularly mundane person, but beneath the dim light of Harry's eye, he was nothing but entertainment and behaved as such always in the man's presence.

Levi could hardly keep his eyes open as he looked over his background for the last time. Harry had noticed this, pushing the boy's hair from his forehead.

Harry acknowledged his dozing face. "You tired?"

"...Yeah."

"Has your headache gone away?"

The somnolent lad nodded daftly, mumbling another  _yeah_  before ultimately nodding off. He remained upright for a only a couple seconds, then fell into Harry's arms, for he caught him.

"Come on," the man said, putting away his laptop. "I'll take you to your room."

"No... It's dirty."

"So are you. You don't see me complaining."

Levi sighed and squeezed Harry's thigh with his feeble, little hand. "Wanna fuck?" He squirmed round, pulling himself out of his the man's grip so that he could properly straddle his waist to no confinement, even if carried out sans any skill. "Want me to ride your cock, daddy? Let you fill me up and come inside me like you  _love_  to do? I know you love to do that. Haven't stopped thinking about it since last time... How good your cock felt so deep inside me, I could feel your come in my belly. When I screamed your name over and over again till I made a mess all over myself."

"You're disturbed," Harry said. "Go to sleep."

"I play with myself to the thought of you. Nearly each night, I make myself come thinking about all the amazing ways you touch me."

"So I've heard. Let me take you to your room."

With that, Harry picked up the small, giggling body in his arms and carried it down the corridor. The door to Levi's bedroom was already open. It was not the first time Harry had seen it; perhaps he'd already seen three to four photos of it. The mess did not stagger him. Surely he wasn't used to disorganisation living as an adult, but he understood why there were empty cans of lager hiding in the corner with the water pipe.

He stepped over the mass of coursework inhabiting the floor, the shoes, the dirty clothes, all the food rappers and loose change, and laid the 16-year-old in his bed. And standing above him, Harry sighed inwardly, there to watch his young promiscuity smile at him so fondly.

With a mound of gratitude, Levi said, "Thank you."

"Why aren't you in college?" Harry was none but curious. "You always go hungover."

"Decided to bunk off."

"Why?"

"I dunno. I wanted to see you."

He didn't say anything to that. Rather than respond, he allowed the boy to clarify.

"I haven't spoken to you in over a week, but it felt like fucking forever. I wanted to hangout. I needed my résumé written as well and since you're good at that sort of thing, I thought, 'Why not?' Getting that job's the only way for me to get outta this fucking hell of a life. 'M glad you did that for me.

"Ya know, I don't only want sex with you. I think you're great. I'm... quite fond of you. An' I know I'm being stupid, but I-- You're, like, ten years older than me, I know I shouldn't... I... I shouldn't have feelings for you. 'Specially 'cause it's not what you w-want. I know that. I want... Wanted you... to know."

After several efforts to beautifully announce his mighty devotion, Levi's voice devolved into nothing but incomprehensible, broken whimpers that expressed no more than fatigue and panic.

Harry tucked his necklace inside his shirt and lowered himself onto the boy's body. Parts of their skin touched, their stomachs brushed the other, and in that instance it left the younger lad trembling. Or at least in the only way his body would permit.

Whether he thought that he should or not, Harry didn't explain to Levi what he was doing. He didn't explain that he would have sex with him against his will, even if they both enjoyed it. He neglected to disclose to the young lad that he had no intentions of  kissing him afterward as they cuddled like they sometimes did, as there was no need... Not anymore. Whilst Levi lay on his back, Harry continued undressing his teenage affair until he was clad in his embarrassment and confusion, his clothes lost with all the rest on his carpet. Then as Harry uncovered a condom and a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, he made sure that he took all the proper precautions.

Harry made sure he didn't stumble on his own ignorance thus far. He had brushed his hair in his car before stepping out, deleted every text message on his phone ever sent or received from Levi, had canceled service with his phone provider, made an appointment to get two of his tattoos covered up, rescheduled his session with Doctor Miller for Friday. Previously, he had done his research on anxiety and depression and contemplated whether Levi would write a suicide note upon killing himself. He decided that Levi had no one in his life to apologise to other than Harry Styles, and soon enough, that man would not have ever existed to him.

Levi had fallen asleep shortly before Harry's climax. Being his extraordinarily careful self, Harry threatened to kill the boy if he came, if he grew too loud, failed to keep his hands to himself, or even bit his lips as he usually did. Although the fear might have suppressed his sex drive, Levi was simply too gone to so much as beg for help.

Afterward, Harry wiped the exposed bits of his body clean of any trace of the household, then cleaned up all of Levi's skin. He returned the boy's clothes back to him, moved his limp figure to the floor as he hoovered the sheets and duvets, then went to the living room sofa to do the same. He cleaned the doorknobs which he used, the refrigerator handle, collected his old t-shirts Levi held captive in the closet, and erased his contact and messages on the boy's cell phone as well as the unsent résumé on his laptop. And only then, after the flat represented those who lived there, did he carry Levi back onto his bed.

Harry pushed the boy's face away and searched his neck for a pulse. There wasn't one. So Harry dumped the dust from the hoover into an old shopping bag and left through the back door.

"So, how's work?"

The wall clock in Doctor Miller's office was broken.

"Quit my job," Harry stated. He looked down at a hangnail on his thumb, pondering whether or not he should bite it off and wait to cut it later. "I teach BSL now. Since last month."

"Wow... Harry, that's great!"

"It's not, actually." The younger man tore his hangnail with his teeth. "The kids cry. They don't know how to communicate what they want so they start screaming. A little girl pissed her dress yesterday because she didn't remember how to sign 'toilet'. The elder ones, the teenagers, are the worst. Half of them just sit there and stare out the bloody window whilst the other half try to do my job and teach the ones that don't pay attention. Mainly the hearing ones. They think they know everything. The adult class mostly consists of parents of the deaf kids, so it's more productive than the others. It can be frustrating, but it pays well."

Doctor Miller jotted that down. "I wish you would have told me," he said. "Getting a new job is a big change."

"I don't mind it. It's work."

"What else has been going on this month? Or this whole past year even? Since you've stopped blogging, what's interesting?"

Harry didn't need to think about it. Immediately, he remembered his current interest in animal documentaries, specifically the honey badger, and that he finished watching  _Breaking Bad_  on Netflix. He often still pondered how Walter knew where to park his car once he arrived at the clubhouse in the final episode. He also rolled his eyes whenever he'd think about the "creative leap" of making a blue-coloured meth. There was simply no such thing. Nonetheless, within the new twelve months, Harry attended his stepsister's wedding, later got himself a cat called Francesca, refinanced his car multiple times, raped and murdered a 16-year-old boy, sold five pieces of vintage clothing, bought Donavan a widescreen TV for his birthday, met Rivers Cuomo at a Weezer concert, got into a physical argument with his father (out of self-defense of course) and popped his brother's dislocated shoulder into place.

It was on Christmas morning, the only day of that year when Harry Styles was welcome at the Styles-Green household, and Harry had just opened up a large box with an Off-White fur coat stuffed inside.

Harry pulled the bulky coat out of the box and held it toward the light. "Is this real?" he asked his father.

The man smiled half-heartedly and nodded, as though nothing was worse than spending what could have been a month's rent on a large, puffy jumper.

"It cost a fortune, so take extensive care of it," the man's wife pleaded. "I didn't know if you'd like it, with you being vegan and that, but your dad said it's only a dietary choice, so we figured you wouldn't mind the fur. Do you like it? We can return it if not."

"No, it's lovely." Harry didn't take his eyes away for a second. "Is it a woman's coat?"

"Yeah... Your dad said you'd be fine with it."

"It's beautiful, Celeste. Thank you."

"You're very welcome." She smiled. "Happy Christmas."

As three adults admired the pelt for a well-deserved moment before Donovan looked up from his phone.

"What do you wear with that?" he wondered, scratching his head and biting his lips. "Obviously fur trousers, yeah?"

"Obviously." Harry smacked the boy in the ear. "With fur like this, you're supposed to wear gold. In anything else, there's a 78 percent chance you'd look like fucking a jackass."

"Guess you're looking like a jackass then, with your massive lack of golden anything."

"Yeah, okay. I've got gold earrings, and what have you got? A stupid-arse retainer in your mouth."

"Brilliant."

"And you know what? Diamond and silver are the next best things to gold, which I own plenty of." He reminded his brother of the rings on his fingers and piercing in his naval, and then retrieved the twinkly, ravishing holy pendant hiding underneath his t-shirt.

Almost instantaneously, Donovan, amongst the other two, practically jumped in both enmity or overjoy once spotting a cross hanging off their sinful boy's little neck. As he took in their expressions, Harry thought to either apologise for their superfluous upsets and explain his mythical, highly unreasonable turn to faith or ignore the potential scolding and try on his new coat.

The coat did fit quite nicely.

" _Where_  did you get that necklace, Harry?"

The question seemed to be that of the universe.

"My physical therapist." He had no other choice but to lie. With his brother just there beside him, he couldn't ruin their first Christmas together in years for a simple lapse in morality - if Harry had that at all. "It was a gift," he lied.

Harry's father shook his head. "I don't believe you."

"What would you like to hear then?"

"The truth."

"If you can handle it. Truth is that I stole it right off the neck of one of the people I fucked at the hospital. I anticipated that he'd realise it right away since he's got major OCD, but... it took him a good hour or so. I got this blue ring, as well." He watched his father shoot up from the sofa in horrified disgust, and Harry shrugged. "You asked."

"You know what I ask of you?" the elder man fumed, refusing to look in his son's direction as he marched into the kitchen. "That you don't fuck everything up. You ruin absolutely  _everything_ , Harry, for fuck's sake! Why have you got to turn every fucking event in our lives to shit just because you can? It's not fair to me, it's not fair to your brother, definitely not his mum." He came back out with an unwrapped iPhone box and threw it across the room, though Harry was bold enough to catch it. "Take that phone, take all your shit and get the fuck out of my house."

So Harry stood from his crosslegged position on the floor just beside the flamboyant, twinkly Christmas tree. He picked up his fur coat and folded it up in his arms.

"The only reason I'm not gonna break that new phone I got you is because you've never broken anything of mine."

"Thanks," the boy said.

"It ain't like you're not gonna fucking break it on your own like you do everything else because you're a fucking worthless twat."

"No!" Celeste shouted. "Don't you say that!"

Both men didn't mind disregarding her.

Petting the fox laying dead in his arms, Harry nodded ever so slowly, perplexed green eyes gone wild. "If you really want to start the name-calling," he proposed quietly, "I'll give you name-calling. But since it's Christmas, I'll just leave."

"Please. Fucking leave before you steal everything."

"Get your jumper," Harry said, smacking his brother in the head.

As though the demand was the atrocity rather than the gesture, the boys' father put together a paroxysm and began to verbally assault the elder one. He'd shove Harry back, shouting about how he was not allowed time with Donovan unsupervised due to the dangers he was capable of putting the both of them into. Unsurprisingly, Harry reacted to this hypocritical claim with light laughter, and when the man shoved him again, it was even less surprising that he punched him in the nose. No matter how one might have expected it, however, Celeste screamed and ran off for tissues.

Harry stretched his bruised knuckles as the woman's husband caught the blood dripping from his lips. "Come on, Donnie," Harry said again, picking up his coat from where he'd dropped it.

No words and their synonyms could describe the look on Donovan's face. His head snapped up at the sound of his name, especially when spoken so monotonously in such context, eyes wide and wet, his shuddering mouth hanging open to gather as much air as his frightened lungs could take in. Absolutely Harry could describe this look with words such as "petrified" or "terrorised" with the way the lad's eyebrows furrowed upwards the way they did when he cried, but emotionally, Harry could not spell it out if he wanted to, and he did not. He couldn't feel the pain, the horror, the soreness that Donovan felt, yet he immediately fell to his knees at the boy's mercy and pretended he could.

"Mate..." Harry sighed, saying his name with his hand. "I would never hurt you and that will never change. You know that."

After a moment of sitting across one another, filthy silence squirming between them where no one muttered a thing, their father stepped in and grabbed Donovan by the arm. He pulled his underweight body upward, though his body wouldn't come up with his arm, as his shoulder dislocated which got him screaming instantaneously.

After reassuring that there was no need to go to hospital and calming the boy enough to gather his trust, Harry popped his shoulder back into the socket. He was not invited back again.

But Harry didn't tell Doctor Miller all of this. He told him about the honey badger documentaries, the final episode of  _Breaking Bad_ , Francesca, Zoe's wedding, shaking Rivers' hand, and later discussed his lack of sex drive. Upon that statement, his therapist acted quick to take note of that - to make a plan to refer him to his psychiatrist for a different medical treatment. For majority of the hour, they spoke about new things they didn't normally chat about, people whose names hardly ever entered conversations; Frida Velasquez, Frankie Valli, Marcus and his deadly car accident. With Marcus, he confirmed that he didn't make an appearance - the church was guarded specifically to keep Harry out - though he didn't wish to attend in the first place. His stepbrother was always good as dead to him.

And whilst approaching the final moments of their session, Doctor Miller made it a point to bring something to the light.

"You're a good kid," the therapist told his patient. "But I should stop calling you that. I've just known you for so long... but you're not a kid anymore. Not that you've ever acted like one. I mean, five years ago, you were already so brilliant, so mature for your age. Just thinking about that and looking at you now with all your progress over the years, this years especially, it's just mind-blowing. Even your openness to talking about Frida and what happened to her... I'm glad that you're finally taking some responsibility for that."

"You've never said any of this before." Harry looked at him directly as he tucked his grown-out hair behind his ears. "Why now?"

Dylan Miller wore a fonder smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm immensely proud of you," he said. "It... It's an honour to have been able to counsel you."

Another four months had passed. It was the 29th of December, 2017, and Levi had finally stopped appearing in the news. Due to his aunt Melissa's issues with child neglect, she was of no help to the police when they came inquiring about her nephew's suicide. And because she knew nothing of the boy's whereabouts, his friends or enemies, it never crossed her mind that she had a rape-murder in her flat as well as her hands. They had him a funeral, an open casket so his alcoholic mother could idealistically mourn her loss, which Harry heard about during a cocaine-induced, intellectual conversation with his mate Zayn. But by the 27th of December, it was all old news and England had stubbornly moved on.

Once he trudged through the snow of the open garden, careful to actually trudge and not walk, Harry stopped at the door and rang the bell. There sat one car in the motorway, one that wouldn't be leaving anytime soon due to the horrendously icy weather, giving Harry the impression that little to no people dwelled inside currently. So he knocked and took a couple steps back, hands warm in his wonderful fox pockets.

Only several seconds roved before the door opened up, revealing a man in a sweatshirt and shorts, deemed to be in his early twenties.

Upon the inception, the man appeared curious and dynamic - his blue eyes were delighted whilst his pinkish mouth faltered between expressions as though he couldn't settle. He remained honest in his introduction, beginning with a quick-paced  _"Can I help you?"_  and preparing to extend his hand, until Harry's dimples peaked in. It was then that the man drew back and became the doe-eyed 19-year-old he remembered.

Harry rubbed his thighs together for heat. "I can obviously see two years passed on my face, but can't say the same for you. You look great."

His thoughts weren't at all clear. He looked more nervous than anything. "What are you doing here?"

"How's your mum?"

"Dead."

As Harry looked down in remorse, he shuffled his shoes in the snow. "Oh..." he sighed lowly. "I'm sorry to hear that, Louis. How are you holding up?"

For a while, no reply. They stared at each other in the cold of the early morning. "What do you want?"

"Would you fancy going for some coffee? This new place opened not too far from here."

"No," Louis said, sticking his head out into the chilling air to look about. "No, no, you can't just show up at my doorstep like this. Leave."

"Can we just talk? Catch up?"

"I am two fucking seconds from calling the cops. You literally have two  _fucking_   _seconds_  to get into your car and drive away." He attempted to shut the door, but Harry pushed it back open.

"Please, let me talk to you," the elder lad begged. "It's really important."

Louis said nothing - he pulled his cellphone from his jumper pocket and typed in his passcode.

"It'll only take a minute." Again, there was so response, thus making Harry jump to heights he didn't wish to explore. "It's about Joey Martinez."

And just as he hoped, or even expected, Louis stopped what he was doing immediately. He looked up with urgency, extremely attentive yet repulsed, and concealed his phone. An accidental gasp fled his chest as he whipped his head round to check behind himself, as though someone might have lingered there eavesdropping, calculating his options. Gnawing on his lips, he nodded spastically and demanded that Harry wait in his car.

Once the door closed and locked, Harry dragged his feet through the snow toward his Corolla and moved his cat's carrier to the back. He made sure that he had the heat on at a comfortable temperature, that his car was clean enough for company, which - to every extent - it was. And as he sat in the driver seat, his silver necklace laying beneath his fox and diamonds biting his ears, he consistently rubbed his nose whilst skipping radio stations. He settled on System of a Down when Louis let himself inside.

The young man, now in appropriate attire, buckled his seatbelt and turned the radio down.

"Try not to touch anything." Harry wiped the dial with his fingers. "My cat's got allergies. I need to keep everything clean."

"That why you've got these plastic seat covers on?"

"I take her to the vet a lot. It's easier this way."

Louis obviously didn't care. "Where's this coffee shop then?"

"It's about seven minutes down the..." When he shifted into drive and heard the sound of a flickering lighter, he aggressively placed his hand on the back of the passenger headrest. "Are you smoking?" Harry asked him, refusing to calm his offense taken. "In my car?"

Louis scrunched his shoulders. An unapologetic comeback was waiting between his teeth along with his yet-kindled cigarette, though it was in the way that Harry looked at him that kept him from exposing the man to either of them. He returned the cigarette to its package and sat on his hands the entire ride towards Harry's side of town.

The two joined at a table, small, cheap cups in front of them, they listened to the music playing on the speakers for a while. The silence was unadulteratedly awkward to anyone who might have walked by, for their waiter could have gagged on it, though the shop was relatively empty. It was the morning of the grand opening; just opened half and hour prior, and it was not well advertised.

"So..." Louis started, busting a weak fist through his nerves. "You wanted to talk about Joey Martinez?"

Harry stirred his coffee and rubbed his face. "Yeah... I've been thinking about him a lot lately. Or actually since... it happened. I haven't been able to sleep, I can't eat. It's to the point where my mum's coming over nearly every day to ask what's wrong. It's not like I can even tell her."

"Tell her what?" Louis looked angrily over the booth they sat at.

"That I... That Joey and I fucked around."

"Why was he called Levi in your contacts?"

"Right, because I want to get caught tied to an underage guy, especially now that he killed himself."

"...And why did he kill himself? The police may not know about you, but I do. I swear to God, I was so fucking close to reporting you about that photo he sent you before, but I thought, 'Well, what do I know? I wasn't part of that relationship, I never heard shit about it,' but now... Bloody hell, I've no idea what went down between you, but he's dead and that concerns me. Even if I didn't know him." He leaned in to whisper. "The woman he was living with? His aunt, I think, I don't know-- She said he'd been battling depression for years, but that he completely turned round towards the end. With you, he was having the fucking time of his life, not that I'm surprised. I just find it... strange that he took his life after you went away. Did you ever see him after you came back from hospital?"

Harry shook his head. "I rang to tell him it would be better if we didn't see each other anymore. We didn't really chat about anything else."

"What do you mean? What else did you say to him?"

"I wished him a happy birthday," he admitted with a smile. "And speaking of, happy birthday to you."

Louis put his hand in front the boy's mouth before he could finish his sentence. "Shh... Shut up."

"Sorry..."

"You mean to tell me that he committed suicide after you were released from hospital and told him happy birthday? You ended it with him over the phone, just like that, and then he dropped dead? You expect me to believe that bullshit?"

Sedately, with terrible sorrow in his face, his hands found the table as the rest of him leaned forward. He swallowed thickly, cleared his throat. "Lou..." he whispered, making himself unable to look into the other's eyes. "I hope you don't think... I had something to do with it."

"It doesn't matter what I think. What's done is done."

"He was depressed. Do you know what that's like?"

"Right. Believe me, I know exactly what it's like to be depressed after getting involved with  _you,"_  Louis mumbled over the rim of his teacup.

"So..." Harry chuckled. "What are you saying? That I killed him?"

"No. But if that's what you're saying, then..." The boy shrugged. "Just keep it to yourself, yeah? What I don't know I can't grass about."

"There's nothing to grass about. Period. The only reason I came to talk to you is because what's going on, what's happened, is fucking sickening. And, yes, I blame myself, if you wanted to hear me say it. I do think it's my fault. I'm not going to lie or make up some pathetic excuses. I shouldn't have gotten involved with him, someone so young and influential. He was so lively when I saw him, but obviously thinking about it now, I only saw what I saw. I couldn't have known about the depression unless he told me, which he didn't. But regardless, I shouldn't have been involved. It was wrong. And it's too late now. He's gone and I can't take it back."

"Harry."

He looked up from his hands, his face wet with tears by the time he had finished, and doused himself in the thickest pool and polished remorse. To top it off, he sniffled.

"I've thought about this day a lot since the last time I saw you," Louis told him. "I think about you and what we had together when I try to fall asleep. What happened the last time I saw you plays in my head on a loop. Since then, I've considered countless ways we might see each other again. I thought you would try and climb through my window at night or follow me home. I've been looking over my shoulder everyday since you left, just expecting you to randomly show up because I thought that if I considered every possible outcome, it wouldn't be random; that I would be prepared for whatever happened. But I didn't expect that someone-- No, not just some fucking stranger to us... The person you cheated on me with is dead. And I thought it couldn't be the same person, but I remembered his face. The look on his face as you fucked him burned a bloody hole in my head, so I knew I wasn't fucking crazy. And now you're here, a year later, knocking on my door, wanting to chat about him over coffee.

"I was finally allowing myself to forget about you. My mum passing away shortly after the whole incident, the incident in itself; I started going to therapy just so I could talk about everything. And I was doing so much better. I mean, I could finally get some fucking sleep... and then I see this boy's face on the news. They called it suicide. An overdose. Yet there was no note. And believe me, I analysed this three million fucking times. He wasn't close to his aunt, right? She admitted that in an interview. With her being the only one he lived with, it would make sense that he wouldn't leave her a note, but I figured since it was suicide, he would have to leave someone  _something_. I mean, just one person in the whole world that made him feel the best he ever had in his life." Louis sighed and gazed into at his empty teacup. "You supposedly broke his heart and drove him to kill himself and he didn't leave you a note? Bizarre."

"He did."

The words got the boy to look up quickly with hope as Harry wiped away his tears. "Let me see it," Louis demanded.

"What?"

"Let me see it." He nodded encouragingly. "Don't worry, I'll give it back."

"Just... wait--"

"Then I think we're done here," said the younger lad. He waved across the room at their waiter and gestured for the bill. "Come to my flat again, I'm telling the police everything and having you arrested."

"I'll show you, I've got it on me." Burying his hand in his hair, mussing it very much as the server came by with the bill, his other hand hesitantly reached into his back jeans pocket. Moments later, he slipped a slightly crumpled piece of notebook paper across the booth. "I just didn't want you to think I'm obsessive."

"Well, it's too late for that," Louis said, snatching the paper up in his eager hands. "'Obsessive' is putting it mildly. Overpowering, barbaric, condescending, deceptive--"

"Yeah, I get it."

"Boastful, indignant... I haven't even started with the illegal shit."

By the time Louis got the paper splayed and flat enough to make the writing legible, it was a waiting game - a game where Harry was meant to sit patiently and solemn, both his legs shaking rapidly as he glanced round the shop. He was not anxious, couldn't feel his heart race a thousand miles a minute the way most people often could, but the burning heat inside of his fox coat put a mound of red on his cheeks in that instance, therefore allowing him to appear as though he knew precisely what nervousness was. Or perhaps it could have been humiliation, or even shame for not presenting a vital source of information to the investigators on Joey Martinez's case, however shame in that sense would have been impossible regardless of true feeling. The note was not real. It was not written by the suicide victim, nor the murder victim, and certainly not the rape victim. If one looked closely, one would see it was Harry's cursive handwriting, and that it was written on a page torn from one of his own unique notebooks, and that his DNA was all over it. But Louis wasn't the person to notice any of this. Instead of being overly skeptical, he folded up the paper and gave it back to Harry, his face coated in layers upon layers of apologies.

"What's your cat's name?" Louis asked as he removed his shoes.

"Francesca. She's a Donskoy."

"What the fuck is that?"

"Like a Sphynx, but Russian."

"So she's bald."

Harry laughed, tossing his keys onto his kitchen counter. "Yeah." He brought down a glass from the cupboard. "Do you want something to drink?"

"Can I actually see your cat?"

"Sure," Harry said, nodding toward the corridor. "Check under my bed. If she's not there, then... I don't know, maybe on top of the closet."

Without another word, Louis was taking off to the bedroom.

Harry could pick up on the sound that Francesca's collar made when she'd get frisky, so there was no guessing that she ran when Louis found her. However, since Louis was very good with cats, he lured her into his arms, for Harry heard the younger man call her a "good girl" and the jingling of her bell came to a quiet end. He could hear him confidently swooning on and on about her preciousness, her blue eyes which matched his own, the wrinkly, splotchy skin that hung from her tiny bones. The cat was very sweet - sometimes quick to hiss - but Harry had never noticed that.

Whilst Francesca played with their guest, Harry had the kettle on. He whipped up a quick batch of Yorkshire tea, applying milk and sugar to each cup (almond milk, of course), and flunitrazepam to one. He let the cups sit, took out some biscuits, put back the milk and sugar, and brought everything to the bedroom.

Louis was fully occupied by the cat's playfulness as he accepted Harry's tea. He drank it down, asked for another cup, had plenty of biscuits, several laughs, comforting Harry through his sorrow every now and again - and it was all fun and games until Louis grew tired of playing. He grew tired of sitting up, of blinking, and at one point, he was tired of keeping his phone out of Harry's reach. When ten o'clock struck, Harry had the boy's cellphone dismembered, and his sleeping body in the bed.

By eleven o'clock, Harry had sold Francesca to a Swede heading south to Dorset, getting rid of all proofs of ever owning an animal, which included hoovering every square inch of his flat and car. With the Corolla, he removed the plastic covers and went to change his tires, scrubbed the dashboard and passenger door handle, but only after revisiting Louis' flat to clean every single room and every object he might have touched. He did some of the washing up, replaced the bed sheets, collected dust, mopped, swept, polished, and threw out the iPhone charger that he once used to borrow. And he gave away his outfit, sans the fur coat, and shoes to an intoxicated homeless man after changing clothes, stopped by Zayn's for another haircut, and had himself a nice, hot shower when he finished his call to the phone company to change his number, erasing all of his unwanted contacts and messages associated with them.

Whilst reaching the late, late afternoon, Harry washed his dishes with  _Master of None_  on the TV. The hotel ghost scene was so funny to him, he broke out laughing, of which was quite loud. Though as he chuckled to himself whilst listening to Aziz Ansari complain, soft noises crept from down the corridor, and Harry did nothing but turn up the television volume. As he continued scrubbing the kettle, the noises from the back room grew louder by the second, eventually evolving into full blown screams.

Harry sighed and walked down to his bedroom, opening the door very annoyedly. "Stop crying."

At his intrusion, Louis startled frenetically, though his voice was muffled by a slip of tape covering his mouth. He wriggled on the bed, pulling and yanking every which way to no avail, for in the position where he sat on his knees, head down and backside up, his wrists were tied to his ankles, each leg attached to either sideboard with rope. He was adorned in vulnerability, all of his clothes folded neatly on the dresser along with his gutless cellphone and pocket knife.

Jerking his arms away from the ropes, grunting and sobbing with every failed attempt to free himself, his leveled breathing diminished into hyperventilation. Seeing this happen, Harry slowly went round the other side of the bed, taking the pocket knife on his way, to look Louis in the face. He'd take a knee and stare into his eyes - his very distressed, tear-filled eyes - and see only his reflection staring back.

"So..." Harry mumbled, checking the sturdiness of the knots. "You're probably wondering what's happening, and I'll tell you if you'd like." He waited a moment in silence. "I'm going to fuck you. Nothing major."

Helpless sobs sliced the tape on the boy's lips as he struggled in the confines.

"Be quiet. I've only planned on having sex with you, but if you continue with that, I'll have to do something drastic." The second Louis screamed again, Harry's hand went straight over his mouth, the knife being held just centimeters from his face. "Do it again."

And just like that, he had Louis a crying mess.

"I don't want to hurt you. It's not my intention. I think it's in our best interest that you remain calm, because you  _can_  and you  _will_  get hurt if not. You would be surprised what people do when they're that desperate to escape these things. Like James Franco in  _127 Hours_. Or 9/11 when everyone jumped out the window."

The boy frantically shook his head.

"No?" Harry watched him deny any chance he might aspire to escape, discovering something funny in that. "Don't try to get on my good side. You're bound to annoy me that way. So, I don't know, just... be quiet and don't move."

Except when Harry left the room, gone back to the TV to finish his episode of  _Master of None_ , he heard Louis' voice. He heard Louis speaking from the bedroom, to him, albeit with broken words and whiny vocabulary. And Harry thought to entirely ignore him, but with the way he spoke, with the context he spoke in, Harry had no other choice but to get aggravated.

He left to the utility closet to find a roll of duct tape, then to the kitchen for a bottle of Merlot, bring it back to his bedroom.

Louis was already begging by the time the door opened. "Let me go!" he cried, prying at the knots. "Harry, please, I won't tell anybody! I'll never say anything to anyone, ever!"

The elder man disregarded him as he ripped the worn tape off Louis' face and made to apply another strip, but was disrupted.

"Please, don't! I won't make anymore noise, I-I'll be quiet, I promise! I swear, I won't do anything--"

Harry took a handful of Louis' hair and placed another aggressive hand over his sentence. "I will tape your whole fucking head if you don't stop talking! Open your mouth one more time, I will rip you to shreds." Of course, he threatened him softly, but with the delivery of demonic spirits so that his captive would clearly comprehend that nothing was more important to both of them than keeping everything clean and vanilla. “You think I’m bluffing." He let go of the boy's hair and picked up the bottle from where he'd dropped it. "Make one sound, this entire thing is going up your arse and it will fit. Nod if you understand."

Louis nodded, earning himself permission to erratically breathe.

Not at all taking into consideration the 21-year-old's trepidation, Harry rummaged in his closet for several timely seconds, emerging with a small shoebox. "Have you taken Xanax before?"

Louis nodded.

"Does it work for you?"

He shook his head.

"You aren't lying, are you?"

He shook his head again.

Harry opened the shoebox and took the spot at the right of the bed, just beside Louis' shivering arm. “I’m out of roofies and you can’t smoke weed in here, so I’ve got benzos, valium, ecstasy, and cocaine. Your choice."

Hesitantly, the younger man vigorously shook his head again.

"Pick one," Harry said, waving the wine bottle in his face, "or you're going in sober, and I know you don’t want that."

The sun that passed in through the minuscule slits of the shudders had died off soon after the two lads took their drugs. Harry had spent his time waiting for Louis’ valium to kick in playing chess and reading  _Columbine_  by Dave Cullen, remembering to keep Louis hydrated, making multiple trips to the kitchen for water as well as for plastic cups when Louis needed to relieve himself. In his book, Harry had gotten as far as the midsection of chapter two until Louis began to groan and burble some incoherent words, distracting him from one of his most fascinating reads.

The man glanced up from his place in the chair beside the window and noticed his captive. He bookmarked his page, setting it down as he stood, coming round to see Louis' face. "Can you speak?" Harry asked him, receiving a grumpy hum back. "If you think you need to throw up, please tell me. Try your best to say so." 

Harry took a quick trip to the toilet for a bin, also grabbing lube, condoms, towels, and more water from the kitchen, returning with his hands full and cock half hard. He removed his shirt, undoing the clasp on his belt as he dumped all of his necessities onto the bed. He undressed himself easily, no hesitation whatsoever, but considered performing without a condom. He wouldn’t consult Louis on this contemplation, for surely his opinion would have made no difference, instead lathering the boy’s backside in lube straightaway. And he didn’t bother reassuring Louis that the pain wouldn’t last forever. Louis would have known that whether he was disoriented or not. So before moving forward in his feat, Harry revisited the drug box for some cocaine, which he’d forgotten, and entered an almost immediate, lovely little high, then took some more. With that, he returned to Louis’ company, worked himself up for a few seconds or so before slowly penetrating the boy’s virginity.

Virginity. Harry never fancied the concept. He figured it was nothing to keep or lose. It was not special. It was not sacred. Virginity could not be given or stolen, he thought. One either was or wasn’t a virgin, and as of twenty seconds prior, Louis was not.

The defenseless man sobbed and fidgeted in agony, not muttering a single thing, and throughout the entirety of their engagement, Harry said nothing either.

Regardless of the words unspoken, there was a lot of touching on Harry’s part. He’d leave his fingerprints along Louis’ back, his bum, down the sides of his legs, causing the boy to shiver under his hands. His skin felt good to him, especially inside his elevated mood, and he had always thought so. It was one of the reasons why Louis was so important to snare. Yes, other people he’d slept with had lovely skin, heavenly bodies, faces, but everything that belonged to Louis was everything that Harry wanted to have. He wanted everything to do with him and his petit figure, and reminding himself that he’d accomplished the unachievable, he did feel somewhat relieved; however, not completely yet.

Harry licked his lips, gripping his boy’s waist as though he might escape. “Fuck…”

And the boy finally began to speak. “Please come…” he quietly begged. "Please.”

“Do you want to repeat it?” Leaning over him, Harry held his face just inches from the other’s. “Say, ‘Please come, daddy.’”

As he suspected, Louis didn’t want to say that - and obviously Harry didn’t want to do the boy the favour of relieving him of some psychological damage.

Harry laughed and took up his previous position, continuing to go at the boy.

A short while later, after Harry took a cocaine break and offered his captive more water, the man realised something odd. It wasn’t odd in the sense that the idea never crossed his mind, because it had, but extraordinarily unusual to Louis’ personality that the tears would soon learn to stop falling. Rather than despairing cries dripping from his mouth, Louis was overtaken by nonstop moaning. Their sex had just went over its 20-minute mark, a point where the boy’s valium felt the need to commence its skyrocket.

Louis was certainly at war with himself, lazily fighting the ropes that bound his hands, though, at the same time, gave in to the way Harry’s own hands came down on him. Harry spanked him once, twice, and somewhere over the fifth time, Louis was whining uncontrollably and begging for more.

The 21-year-old jutted back against Harry’s pelvis when the man stopped for a small breather. “Oh, no...” Louis whimpered, his vocal cords more abled. “Fuck me harder.”

Wiping the both of them down with a towel, Harry said, “Does it feel good?”

Louis almost nodded, but he shook his head. “N-No..."

“Oh…” Harry was being facetious. “And that’s why you’re still fucking me?”

“I… I don’t want this. Please stop..."

It was a prowess to him to ignore people, something that came easier to him when he had no reputation to uphold.

Louis cried and moaned, rather conflicted, as Harry continued to abuse him. Although it seemed as if it would never end, a warm, very trying yet exhilarating feeling began approaching Harry from behind, and he did anticipate it, but it stunned him.

Holding onto the boy’s waist, Harry chased his orgasm with much confidence he could catch it, undisturbed by sounds of sadness as they were overpowered by that of his own lust. Beyond several beats, he came inside of Louis’ body, and just afterward, pulled out, got dressed, and left the room, choosing to overlook Louis’ erection, leaving him shivering and out of it.

Two days passed and the two were still living together. Harry would come home after school to mark papers, pay bills, sometimes show up with groceries or takeaway in his hands, but never anything worth sharing. He didn’t feed Louis, didn’t speak to him, didn't untie him, did not even adjust the knots on the ropes unless they needed to be tightened. Louis fell in and out of consciousness throughout his days there. On the second, he'd rubbed his flesh raw attempting to crawl off the bed, as screaming for help wouldn’t have done him much good with layers of tape over his mouth. Harry had him sedated on the third day to eliminate his motor skills. Cleaning blood off the mattress was not on the list of  _How To Get Away With Rape_. He’d burn Louis’ back with a heated fire iron if threatened in the slightest, sometimes melting through his skin. Louis was given dry baths on occasion, on even rarer occasions was given water, and listened to Harry’s music as he laid there. On the third day, however, Louis had no water, no food, no motor skills, and no hope above all else. Harry could see that when he sat down after work to chat to him.

“ _Master of None_  season two was horrendous,” Harry said into the phone, pulling his chair to the other side of the bed. "It’s supposed to be a comedy, right, and he just completely made it something else. I mean, for fuck’s sake, why can’t comedies ever solely rely on comedy?”

“I know. Aziz Ansari is, like, obviously a genius, but only when it comes to comedy. Other than that, he’s good as dead.”

Harry chuckled and took a bite of his Chik-Fil-A sandwich. “In general, he’s a good actor. I just don’t fancy the second season.”

“What are you eating?” Zayn asked off his end.

“Sandwich.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know, ask your mum.”

“Okay, that’s not even insulting. I could ask her that right now and she’d say some shit like, ‘Peanut butter and jelly.’”

“Hey, did you ever see the  _Death Note_  live action movie?” From the corner of his eye, Harry spotted Louis staring at him and his food. He fixed his phone to the other ear and popped a chip into his mouth.

“Uh, do you even know who you’re talking to? Mate, I watched the  _Death Not_ e live action movie in my fucking sleep approximately eight million years ago, meaning I’ve been dreaming of the day of its release since before mankind was even created so… Don’t disrespect me like that again.”

“That film was shit.”

“Yeah, obviously it was shit, dumbarse! I’m just saying don’t disrespect me. I’ve been watching  _Death Note_  my entire fucking life, so you better not tell me shit.”

“The main thing that bothered me about that film was the cast. Misa was a bitch instead of being, like… just obsessive and weird, not to mention the fact that they changed her name to Mia. L was a fucking assassin for some reason, I don’t fucking know, and Light was ugly.”

Zayn gasped over the line. “Harry, don’t you fucking dare!”

“I’m not coming after Nat Wolff, he’s whatever. I’m saying that they casted some guy that actually looks like an OCD serial killer when, in actuality, Light isn’t supposed to look like that. He’s meant to look ‘normal’, you get me? Otherwise, it would make no sense for people  _not_  to suspect him. I mean, that’s the whole bloody plot of the anime; for him to kill people and get away with it. And they fucking mutilated him with the highlights, the dingy-arse clothes, the stalker face he’s got. The only reason I watched it was for Willem Dafoe, obviously. Ryuk was the only character they actually did a good job casting, but aside from Willem Dafoe, Ryuk was still shit.”

“Fucking obviously! The film was shit!”

“Fuck off.” Harry finished off his sandwich and stuffed a chip into his already full mouth. “I’ve got to go.”

“We still on for tomorrow?”

“Yeah, of course. Bye.” Hanging up, he slipped his cellphone into his back pocket, sinking into the comforts of his chair as he looked at Louis’ detached expression.

Neither of them said anything for a long time, but Louis broke the ice.

“I thought you were vegan,” he whispered.

“It’s a cheat day.”

“Vegans don’t cheat.”

“Come on, you know I cheat.” The younger boy didn’t respond to that. “It was a joke. You can laugh.”

“What else have you lied to me about?”

Harry considered this question interesting. He glanced at the ceiling in a shallow thought, scratching behind his ear briefly. “The cat,” he named off. “She didn’t have allergies. You know, hairless cats usually have serious health conditions anyway, so since Francesca had ‘allergies’, I had an excuse to put the seat covers on my car, keep you from touching stuff. She served lots of purposes. Since she was hairless, there was a lot less to clean up after selling her. I didn’t have to worry about cat hair. Primarily, her purpose was to get you here, since you love cats and whatnot.”

“What else?”

He thought a bit deeper for this one. “The bipolar thing. I’m not bipolar.” He couldn’t help but smile. “It’s funny because I’m incapable of something like that. Or at least I reckon so. I was supposed to get an fMRI for all this after leaving that hospital, but I didn’t, which was great for me because it would’ve turned my plan to shit. I acted as though I was narcissistic more than anything else. But anyway, I’ve got Antisocial Personality Disorder, not Bipolar.”

“So you’re psychotic.”

“No,” he corrected, using his finger to point out how wrong the statement was. “The term ‘psychotic’ refers to psychosis, and I don’t experience that. If you wanted to call me psychopathic, which I’m sure is what you meant, that would make more sense. Albeit, it would be derogatory since I’m not diagnosed and you’re in no position to do so.”

“Whatever.” Louis took a deep breath through his weak lungs. “What else?”

“Every time I said I was sorry, it was bullshit.”

“What about Joey?”

Exaggerating his disbelief, Harry scoffed and turned away, as though the boy was too stupid to look at. “Don’t you fucking act like you don’t know. I’m being real with you - the least you can do is do the same."

“What did you do to him?”

“I drugged him.”

“With what?”

“His medication.”

“Why?”

“He was a liability. I saw no other choice.”

“...So it wasn't suicide? You killed him?”

It was evident in his eyes that he was losing patience. With Louis asking questions he already knew the answers to, their conversation annoyed him gravely. He would have simply gotten up to have a shower and go to sleep in the guest room, but something told him that he shouldn’t. It was not a gut feeling, as he didn’t have those - it came to him as an actual cue. He became curious as to why Louis was so curious, so entitled, and decided that it would not have been the best of ideas to continue this dialogue. But he did not stand to leave. He measured the guilt in Louis’ face, his consternation that was impeccably apparent, realising that it was all so very arbitrary. And then he considered, rationally, that it wasn’t.

Subsequently, he heard his cue come from the closet.

Harry sighed. He looked at the closet, then back at Louis. “Who’s in there?” he calmly whispered.

Of course, Louis didn't say a word.

“Don’t tell me, it’s fine. Just know whatever happens to them is on you.”

He got up from his chair and picked up the pocket knife on the dresser, boldly moving toward the closet. He opened the door with the knife nearly inside the stomach of the intruder before he could see who it was. However, he did see the face just in time to withdraw himself. If ever there was a time he could recall the feeling of astonishment, it was this moment. The feeling was small, and one might debate whether or not it was valid, though regardless, it disappeared immediately as he dropped the knife.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Donnie,” Harry said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

The teenager shook his head rapidly, refusing to leave the safety of the closet. “I’ve already sent it. You’re not getting away with anything.”

“How did you get in?”

“I-I picked the lock,” Donovan stuttered, his phone shaking in his hands. “I recorded it, it’s going through.”

“Okay. We’ll wait for the police to show up then.”

He gestured to knife on the floor. “Kick that to me.”

Harry did as he was told, allowing his brother to retrieve the weapon. “Have you got any questions for me?”

“After you untie him.”

“I’m not doing that. You might be scared of me right now, but Louis’ long past that point. He’ll attack me if he gets the chance.”

“You fucking deserve it! You’re a fucking psycho!”

The man shrugged. “Maybe. But if you’ve got questions, you should ask them now before I get arrested. I’d be more than willing to answer.”

“No. Don’t say anything. Save it for the police.”

The three of them waited patiently in the bedroom until sure sirens closed in round Harry’s flat. At this time Harry got up for a few hits of cocaine, as he would not be having any of that behind bars. It was before long that the front door came in and heavy footsteps and loud shuffles of equipment surged throughout his home. The bedroom door was wide open upon their entry, so as the police came rushing in, Harry hadn’t anything to do but follow their instructions. Two men of five had Harry stand up, putting him in handcuffs straightaway. Another pulled Donovan aside to question and check him for injuries as two others cut the ropes which bound Louis to the bedpost.

Harry was brought out into the snow in front of his neighbours, including a deaf child from one of his classes. Some acted quickly to jump right into the officers’ faces and demand they explain why on earth Harry Styles, of all people, had been detained. Of course nothing could prolong his arrest.

He went through immediate booking and sat inside a jail cell for days until getting dragged through the lengthy process of his final psychological evaluation. In the end, his score on the PCL-R assessment turned out to be a 36 of 40, and via an fMRI, psychopathy was visible in his brain, making Harry clinically psychopathic. He was later pressed for questioning.

“You know we’ve been looking for you for about two years now?” one agent said to Harry. “That blog you had was starting some real trouble online. It’s been reported countless times and visitors to your blog were also being reported for death threats. It’s a good thing you took it down when you did or we might have found you sooner.”

“The last time we looked at it before it was shut down, you had four million monthly viewers,” the other agent said. “Did you know that?”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“So you knew four _million_ people were reading your blog _every_ month. Did you feel you had some kind of responsibility for the messages you put out there, being this massive voice in the media?”

“What people choose to look at in their free time is their responsibility.”

“Well, some of these ‘people’ you’re referring to created their own… disturbing fanbase for you. I’m sure you’re aware of the shirts, they’ve been everywhere.”

He nodded again. “Yeah, I know about them.”

“Have you ever seen someone in public wearing one of the shirts?”

“Yes.”

“I have, as well. As I was having a stroll down the pavement, you know, doing some school shopping with my kids, I saw an 8-year-old girl with a shirt that said ‘I’M CHARLIE’ across the front and ‘FUCK OFF’ across the back.”

“I didn’t make those shirts.”

“Oh, we know. And weirdly enough, it wasn’t one of the hundreds of tribute accounts either. But when your blog was deleted, we thought, ‘Well, hey, this sick, psycho twat has finally fucked off.’ And then we get all different kinds of people claiming to be you, actually wanting to get arrested just for two minutes of fame.”

The first agent offered his intellect. “We had teenage girls coming in left and right insisting that they had been assaulted by you. What do you think of that?”

“Well…” Harry leaned back in his chair, the handcuffs on his wrists clanking about. “I think you’re trying to blame me for things I didn’t do. I’ve already confessed to the blog, the rapes, murder, kidnapping, the lot. What else do you want?”

“To understand why you did it. Explain it.”

“There’s really nothing to explain. It all seems so obvious to me. When you look at it, it’s kind of a no-brainer.”

“You can try explaining it anyway. Start from the beginning. You know, tell us about yourself.”

Pinching his lips and concentrating on the surface of the table, he thought about the beginning. It didn’t come to mind so instantly, but it came with slight force, like he remembered everything the way he remembered the back of his hands. “I grew up with my mother. My parents got divorced when I was four, so I never saw my dad, and to be honest, I didn’t mind. My mother was very loving, very attentive. When her and my dad split up, she turned more to religion and God. She was always religious, and she brought me up that way as well, but it was… a bit more intense at this time. She was working a lot, so she hired babysitters. Quite a few of them were abusive - verbally, physically, and one of them sexually. It was to the point where I would hide kitchen knives in my room just in case one of them wanted to try something. And that’s not to say I was scared. It was more of a… ‘kill or be killed’ sort of scenario. But one day, I was asleep in my room when my babysitter abducted me. He had me in his car for most of the day, and at one point was on a call to my mum with all these open threats. They were, you know, dating at the time and he wanted to get a rise out of her. The guy was arrested later on and I never had another babysitter after that. A few years later, my mum remarried, I got two step-siblings. My stepbrother beat me up a lot, since he was older and a whole lot bigger than me. Um… After a couple months of that, I hit him in the mouth with a golf club and he just… left me alone.

“Being a teenager, I started experimenting with drugs. Obviously, I started off with weed, just like everyone else. I was never what you’d call a ‘good kid’ in school or at home. I didn’t have many friends. The ones I did have were just some kids I’d get high with. My mum put me in therapy the same year after I threatened her over something stupid. I mean, I didn’t threaten _her_ , but… it was enough to scare her. My first therapist had me get in touch with my dad again, and this is about ten years of not seeing him. I get in touch with him and he tells me he’s having another kid, so I’m like, ‘…Okay. Cool.’ I didn’t really care about what he did or how he lived his life, he didn’t mean shit to me. But when the baby eventually came round, my dad would be ringing me up, saying, ‘Hey, I’ve got your brother with me, we’re going to Cheshire today. You should hangout with us.’ I got on with them pretty quickly, him, his wife and their kid. I was able to drive within the next year or so, so I was always going into London to see my brother, Donovan. I was doing much better in college, had started sixth form, started thinking about what I wanted to do for my career. I had everything planned out. I wanted to take simple jobs for the first few years out of uni, then go back for my PhD to be an English professor. You probably already know, but right after I got out of uni— I was about twenty-three— I stabbed a girl in the face at Sea World. She was sexually harassing me, so since I’m not a fan of double-standards, I didn’t have a problem defending myself. My dad resented me after that. He tried not to show it, but he did. He would hide the fact that he no longer trusted me until one day he just said, ‘Hey, you’re not allowed to see Donnie anymore,’ so… Obviously, we didn’t give a shit. We still hung out. I would pick him up in the middle of the night, we’d drive somewhere to get food, smoke, whatever, and I’d have him back in the next couple hours.

“I was in and out of therapy at this point. It was really starting to annoy me, seeing therapists since I was fourteen. I only continued with it because it made my mum happy and it reassured my dad that I wasn’t some dangerous lunatic. A couple years ago, I met Joey and Louis. On the same day, actually. I liked Louis right away. He was very attractive, both physically and socially. I was sort of… fixated by him. You know how rapists say, ‘Oh, she was asking for it. You should’ve seen what she was wearing.’ He was like that. Obviously, my intentions were never to rape him or do him any harm at all. It’s just that when you think about it, what’s really stopping you from doing what you want? Nothing. Sure, most people would say, ‘Morals and ethics,’ but I haven’t really got those. At least not the ones neurotypicals prioritise. So when you don’t have morals and you don’t have fear, what’s stopping you? My biggest concern with Louis was getting him to have sex with me. I did enjoy his company, but it wasn’t about that. The thing was… I wanted to have sex with him and he didn’t. He was nineteen, a virgin, so I understood that he was nervous. Like I said, I never intended harming him at all. I was more than willing to wait. But in order for me to do that, I had to give him what he wanted out of me, which was affection, commitment, loyalty. So I’m just thinking, ‘…Yeah, sure, I’ll do that.’ But meanwhile, I’ve already got Joey on the sidelines.

“I wasn’t about to drop sex for who knows how long for some guy who I may or may not even have a chance with, so I stayed with Joey with a couple more people on the end. This carried on for a bit under a month until Louis found out that I’d been cheating on him. I think it was a couple days or maybe the next day that I went to his mum’s house to apologise. He’s quite stubborn, so when you’ve done something to make him lose faith in you, you’re practically dead to him. But since Louis and my mother are very similar when it comes to… you know, feeling guilty, I had this idea that Louis would forgive me the way my mum always used to do. I threatened to kill myself, and that whole thing was so fucking flawed. I was on cocaine during the event. Regardless, it would have worked had his dad not come home. It was a near-death experience in many ways, but in the most evident, it was because I was bleeding out, so they called an ambulance down. They didn’t press charges. The whole thing looked like a suicide attempt, so that's what we told them it was.

“I went to hospital, did more therapy, and shortly got out after pretending to have NPD. Almost as soon as I got out, I went to Joey’s. His aunt’s flat. He needed help writing a job résumé, so I told him I would help. He was hungover when I got there, which I knew because he was drunk-texting me the previous night, so it was probably the best opportunity for me to go. I wrote the résumé for him and everything and gave him some aspirin for his hangover and some tea to help in go down. This is where I got him to take his antidepressants. I crushed it up in the kitchen and put it in his tea, and he had quite a few cups of it. I took him to his room and that’s where the rape happened. He was dying as this was going down. His body was getting hot and he started breathing really quickly, and then… he just stopped. I cleaned up and left him there and that was that. I wasn’t doing much else after that as far as this investigation is concerned.

“So that brings us up to date. I was still seeing my therapist, the one I’ve got now. And honestly, he’s a shit therapist. I have had better ones in the past, but I kept going back to this one— Dylan Miller— because… Well, he's shit. If in the circumstance that I was suspected for these crimes without direct evidence, without my own confession, I would have been able to plead insanity and blame him for being shit, especially because he was the one who had me start the blog in the first place. I’m sure you’re going to question him if you haven't already, so, you know, I’m completely fine with him telling you guys whatever. If you need me to make that statement again later, just remind me. But back to Louis - we hadn’t seen each other since he got me that ambulance, which, in about a week, will be two years ago. I went to his flat and asked him out for coffee. At first, he was against it. He wanted nothing to do with me whatsoever. But I teased the idea of telling him about Joey since he had been all over the news. So we went out, I told him what he wanted to hear, that my life was shit, I needed support, someone very close to me committed suicide... He was 100 percent onto me though. He definitely would have told somebody about me and would have ran to the nearest fucking police station with this vital information and these inferences he had on me. But, um… I showed him this suicide note that was meant to look like it came from Joey and he believed it. Honestly, it looked like some shitty-arse coursework I could have done in fucking year five. I got him to my flat, got him the same way I did Joey. With tea. The only reason I didn’t kill Louis straightaway was because I wanted him to last. So there’s that.”

Neither agent was comfortable looking Harry in the eyes. They glanced round the room as one of them proceeded with a crucial inquiry. “We asked both Louis and Donovan what happened when Donovan arrived at the scene, before you walked in. Your brother claims to have picked the lock on the front door because he wanted to see you. Obviously he didn’t expect to find a tortured man tied up in your bedroom. Both statements were practically identical from this point, but Louis was a bit more collected during questioning, so I’ll tell you what he said.” The agent lifted a short stack of paper to his face. “‘I'd heard Harry talk about Donovan before, but never met him until the arrest. It’s a shame that we had to meet like that. As soon as he saw me, he fucking lost his shit. He started crying and apologising on Harry’s behalf, but there just wasn’t any time for that. I told him to leave the area and call the police as soon as possible. I didn’t want him to get hurt. But it was like he made it his life’s mission then and there to help me no matter what came of it. He said, “I’m not going anywhere, he’s not getting away with this,” and he tried messing with the ropes. I was reluctant, you know? He's just a kid, not much younger than Joey Martinez, and I knew what Harry was capable of. But Donovan was so persistent. He took out his phone and said he was going to hide and record everything. So I said, “fine,” but I had him take both of our names, some footage of the room, my body, just in case something were to happen to us. I told him this. I told him, "Hey, you know you can get hurt. You don’t have to do this. Actually, I would prefer if you didn’t.” And he just looked at me with this expression of total rage. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone _that_ angry in my life... He glared at me, and I thought he was gonna start shouting or something, but he just calmly said, “He’s my brother. He would never hurt me. I promise you, we’re both going to be fine.” So he went to hide in the cupboard and Harry came in about twenty minutes later, I reckon. I thought for sure when he heard something move in the cupboard, we'd both be dead. But Harry surrendered just like that, no questions asked. He sat in the room with us, got some water and whatnot, and waited until the police arrived.’” The agent set the papers down. “You had no problem killing Joey, but you let Louis and Donovan go. Why?”

For a moment, Harry tried to imagine what must have gone through his witnesses heads on the night of the arrest, but he couldn’t. “You already know the answer to that,” he said with a charming smile. “There’s nothing I wouldn't do to protect my brother. Nothing. And as for Louis… He got lucky. But that isn’t to say I _wanted_ to kill him. I didn't want to kill Joey either. I simply knew that, one of these days, I was going to get caught with him, so I had to get rid of him. I’m not crazy or dangerous or anything like that. As a matter of fact, as far as personality goes, I’m statistically less dangerous than you are. Even if you were having this conversation with Ted Bundy, you would try to kill him way before he’d try to kill you."


End file.
